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For works with similar titles, see November.
For other versions of this work, see November (Teasdale).
 

NOVEMBER

THE world is tired, the year is old,
The little leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Among the rushes dry.


Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our poor love pass
Like leaves along the wind.