A NOVEMBER DAY

There are no clouds above the world, But just a round of limpid grey, Barred here with nacreous lines unfurled, That seem to crown the autumnal day, With rings of silver chased and pearled. The moistened leaves along the ground, Lie heavy in an aureate floor; The air is lingering in a swound; Afar from some enchanted shore, Silence has blown instead of sound. The trees all flushed with tender pink Are floating in the liquid air, Each twig appears a shadowy link, To keep the branches mooréd there, Lest all might drift or sway and sink. This world might be a valley low, In some lost ocean grey and old, Where sea-plants film the silver flow, Where waters swing above the gold Of galleons sunken long ago.