November Eves

November Evenings! Damp and stillThey used to cloak Leckhampton hill,And lie down close on the grey plain,And dim the dripping window-pane,And send queer winds like HarlequinsThat seized our elms for violinsAnd struck a note so sharp and lowEven a child could feel the woe.

Now fire chased shadow round the room;Tables and chairs grew vast in gloom:We crept about like mice, while NurseSat mending, solemn as a hearse,And even our unlearned eyesHalf closed with choking memories.

Is it the mist or the dead leaves,Or the dead men−November eves ?