In November

FAR to the northward are the frozen lakes ;
Ye shipmen, draw to anchor, and furl sail!
Soon will the cold drift hither, and the gale
Shrill in our hemlock groves and bending brakes.
Ye wild birds, to the shores! before the flakes
Swarm in the forests, and the Polar bees
Sting our sweet singers to the milder seas.
I too would fly, my spirit so forsakes
Me since the hand of Time upon my brow
Advanced his standard. Once, when I was young,
I stretched a hand to Time, and, for mere pleasure,
Danced to the tempest’s wild and wintry measure,
Though the white swarms in all the hemlocks swung.
“ When I was young,” — that I must say that now!