The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
From ‘November: A Dirge’J. R. Ramsay (1849–1907)
D
On the high branches, ere they haste away,
Singing their farewell to the frigid ether
And fading day,
To sport no more on withered mead or heather;
No longer gay.
Sounds lonely in the crisp and yellow leaves,
Like bygone tones of tenderness upbringing
A thought that grieves:
A bell upon a ruined turret ringing
On Sabbath eves.
Pilot of storms across the silent sky,
Soars loftily along the heaving heaven
With doleful cry,
Uttering lone dirges. Thistle-beards are driven
Where the winds sigh.
Still lingering, by the changing season spared,
And a lone bird within a leafless bower—
Two friends, who dared
To share the shadows of misfortune’s hour,
Though unprepared.