November’s breath makes the night air frosty,
It freezes up the wavy rills,
It makes the world a misty blue,
And hides the beauty of the distant hills.
He sweeps the leaves from their shady nooks,
And through the air he twirls them,
Up, and away, he thinks this fun,
While up and down he whirls them.
He has no pity for the unclothed trees;
He laughs as they full of sorrow hang low,
And weeping lament of his cruelty
To their children now whirled to and fro.
Polly Alexander Age 12