It had been a very yellow autumn, so far. Quite beautiful, but it seemed that the development of colour had been arrested. Then, one night of hard frost, followed by a couple of bright, sunny days. Suddenly, plantations of Birch have become gleaming rivers. Beech hedgerows shine on hilltops like burnished copper. Alder trees have dropped their leaves overnight, leaving just a few waving, white on the ends of blackening branches, as if in surrender. Cherry leaves, the yellow and pink echoing the colour of their young fruit. Dogwood and Spindle, their leaves pools of dark wine.
No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -
November!
Thomas Hood
This year, the poem does not apply.
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