Classic Poem

November's marriage-peal, far-off, is booming:
The bridegroom's face is sorrowfully glooming;
He saith, “December's chilling mist is coming!”
His gait is feeble, and his back is bow'd.
The sad wind suddenly its moaning husheth;
Hark! scarcely heard, the unseen runlet gusheth!
But soon again the moaning wind outrusheth,
And seemeth bickering with some mournful cloud.
Beneath the sickly moon the owl is flying;
Not to the misty moon the owl is crying;
Not to the owl the startled rat replying:
November married April, and is dying!
Near him, his young bride patiently is sighing;
And, lo, the moon hath cast away her shroud!