Talk Not Of Sad November, When A Day Of Warm, Glad Sunshine Fills The Sky Of Noon, And A Wind, Borrowed From Some Morn Of June, Stirs The Brown Grasses And The Leafless Spray. On The Unfrosted Pool The Pillared Pines Lay Their Long Shafts Of Shadow: The Small Rill, Singing A Pleasant Song Of Summer Still, A Line Of Silver, Down The Hill-Slope Shines. Hushed The Bird-Voices And The Hum Of Bees, In The Thin Grass The Crickets Pipe No More; But Still The Squirrel Hoards His Winter Store, And Drops His Nut-Shells From The Shag-Bark Trees. Softly The Dark Green Hemlocks Whisper: High Above, The Spires Of Yellowing Larches Show, Where The Woodpecker And Home-Loving Crow And Jay And Nut-Hatch Winter'S Threat Defy. O Gracious Beauty, Ever New And Old! O Sights And Sounds Of Nature, Doubly Dear When The Low Sunshine Warns The Closing Year Of Snow-Blown Fields And Waves Of Arctic Cold! Close To My Heart I Fold Each Lovely Thing The Sweet Day Yields; And, Not Disconsolate, With The Calm Patience Of The Woods I Wait For Leaf And Blossom When God Gives Us Spring!