November.

The night is dark and the night is cold,

And the wind blows fierce and strong:

And the rich man sits in his castle old;

He drinks his wine, and he counts his gold,

As the night goes frowning along, along,

And the night wind sings its song.

The wind speeds out to the withered lea,

Afar from the urban throng,

Where the poet abideth in poverty:

Nor castle, nor wine, nor gold, hath he,

But he heareth the night wind’s song—its song

As the night goes frowning along.

Oh! give me no castles, proud and old,

Nor honors that station brings;

Give me no plenty of wine and gold;

But give me the soul, when the nights are cold,

To hear what the night wind sings and sings

As it rustles its voiceful wings.

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