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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507830" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>November</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">As I walk the misty hill<br>All is languid, fogged, and still;<br>Not a note of any bird<br>Nor any motion's hint is heard,<br>Save from soaking thickets round<br>Trickle or water's rushing sound,<br>And from ghostly trees the drip<br>Of runnel dews or whispering slip<br>Of leaves, which in a body launch<br>Listlessly from the stagnant branch<br>To strew the marl, already strown,<br>With litter sodden as its own,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A rheum, like blight, hangs on the briars,<br>And from the clammy ground suspires<br>A sweet frail sick autumnal scent<br>Of stale frost furring weeds long spent;<br>And wafted on, like one who sleeps,<br>A feeble vapour hangs or creeps,<br>Exhaling on the fungus mould<br>A breath of age, fatigue, and cold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oozed from the bracken's desolate track,<br>By dark rains havocked and drenched black.<br>A fog about the coppice drifts,<br>Or slowly thickens up and lifts<br>Into the moist, despondent air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mist, grief, and stillness everywhere....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And in me, too, there is no sound<br>Save welling as of tears profound,<br>Where in me cloud, grief, stillness reign,<br>And an intolerable pain<br>Begins.<br>Rolled on as in a flood there come<br>Memories of childhood, boyhood, home,<br>And that which, sudden, pangs me most,<br>Thought of the first-belov'd, long lost,<br>Too easy lost! My cold lips frame<br>Tremulously the familiar name,<br>Unheard of her upon my breath:<br>'Elizabeth. Elizabeth.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No voice answers on the hill,<br>All is shrouded, sad, and still ...<br>Stillness, fogged brakes, and fog on high.<br>Only in me the waters cry<br>Who mourn the hours now slipped for ever,<br>Hours of boding, joy, and fever,<br>When we loved, by chance beguiled,<br>I a boy and you a child —<br>Child! but with an angel's air,<br>Astonished, eager, unaware,<br>Or elfin's, wandering with a grace<br>Foreign to any fireside race,<br>And with a gaiety unknown<br>In the light feet and hair backblown,<br>And with a sadness yet more strange,<br>In meagre cheeks which knew to change<br>Or faint or fired more swift than sight,<br>And forlorn hands and lips pressed white,<br>And fragile voice, and head downcast,<br>Hiding tears, lifted at the last<br>To speed with one pale smile the wise<br>Glance of the grey immortal eyes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">How strange it was that we should dare<br>Compound a miracle so rare<br>As, 'twixt this pace and Time's next pace,<br>Each to discern th' elected's face!<br>Yet stranger that the high sweet fire,<br>In hearts nigh foreign to desire,<br>Could burn, sigh, weep, and burn again<br>As oh, it never has since then!<br>Most strange of all that we so young<br>Dared learn but would not speak love's tongue,<br>Love pledged but in the reveries<br>Of our sad and dreaming eyes....</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now upon such journey bound me,<br>Grief, disquiet, and stillness round me,<br>As bids me where I cannot tell,<br>Turn I and sigh, unseen, farewell.<br>Breathe the name as soft as mist,<br>Lips, which nor kissed her nor were kissed!<br>And again — a sigh, a death —<br>'Elizabeth. Elizabeth.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No voice answers; but the mist<br>Glows for a moment amethyst<br>Ere the hid sun dissolves away,<br>And dimness, growing dimmer grey,<br>Hides all ... till nothing can I see<br>But the blind walls enclosing me,<br>And no sound and no motion hear<br>But the vague water throbbing near,<br>Sole voice upon the darkening hill<br>Where all is blank and dead and still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Nichols">Robert Nichols</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=507830" data-title="November de Robert Nichols" data-description="As I walk the misty hill
All is languid, fogged, and still;
Not a note of any bird
Nor any motion's hint is heard,
Save from soaking thickets round
Trickle or water's rushing sound,
And from ghostly trees the drip
Of runnel dews or whispering slip..."></div>
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