How Like A Hooded Friar, Bent And Grey, Whose Pensive Lips Speak Only When They Pray Doth Sad November Pass Upon His Way. Through Forest Aisles While The Wind Chanteth Low - In God'S Cathedral Where The Great Trees Grow, Now All Day Long He Paceth To And Fro. When Shadows Gather And The Night-Mists Rise, Up To The Hills He Lifts His Sombre Eyes To Where The Last Red Rose Of Sunset Lies. A Little Smile He Weareth, Wise And Cold, The Smile Of One To Whom All Things Are Old, And Life Is Weary, As A Tale Twice Told. "Come See," He Seems To Say - "Where Joy Has Fled - The Leaves That Burned But Yesterday So Red Have Turned To Ashes - And The Flowers Are Dead. "The Summer'S Green And Gold Hath Taken Flight, October Days Have Gone. Now Bleached And White Winter Doth Come With Many A Lonely Night. "And Though The People Will Not Heed Or Stay, But Pass With Careless Laughter On Their Way, Even I, With Rain Of Tears, Will Wait And Pray."