November is a good month for the Slow Life, when everything starts to wind down.
There is wind where the rose was
Cold rain where sweet grass was
And clouds like sheep
Stream o’er the steep
Grey skies where the lark was
Nought warm where your hand was
Nought gold where your hair was
But phantom, forlorn,
Beneath the thorn,
Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was
Tears, tears where my heart was.
And ever with me
Child ever with me,
Silence where hope was.
Walter de la Mare