Classic Poem

Rainy November is here,
So melancholy and drear;
Saddest month of all the year.

Ceased is all the harvest din,
For the crops are gathered in
Barn and cellar, crib and bin.

Shorter too the days have grown;
The feathered songsters all have flown
To a warmer, milder zone.

In the woodland dells and on
Hill-side, meadow, field and lawn,
Flowers have withered, all, and gone.

Naked too the trees appear,
Meadow-land is brown and sere.
Old and faded is the year.