LI
NOVEMBER-BLIND
IN this November though I bend. My heart I cannot find a friend About the wood. The green is down From water-mead to forest crown; (Save where the myrtle in the lane Paints the gray sod an emerald stain; Save where the pines below the hill Glow with the suns of summer still). The hardy juniper to dust Corrodes in this autumnal rust. The goldenrod and aster-head Are black and broke and more than dead. This morning, fog about the height Creeps up and chokes the growing light; Lies like a blanket through the wood, And doubly trebles solitude. And when the sun above the mist Shall clear a space of amethyst, He too shall hunt, November-blind, A friend about the wood to find.