  November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning’s chill; The morning’s snow is gone by night; Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep, Watching all things lie “down to sleep.” I never knew before what beds, Fragrant to smell, and soft to touch, The forest sifts and shapes and spreads; I never knew before how much Of human sound there is in such Low tones as through the forest sweep When all wild things lie “down to sleep.” Each day I find new coverlids Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight; Sometimes the viewless mother bids Her ferns kneel down, full in my sight; I hear their chorus of “good-night”; And half I smile, and half I weep, Listening while they lie “down to sleep.” November woods are bare and still; November days are bright and good; Life’s noon burns up life’s morning chill; Life’s night rests feet which long have stood; Some warm, soft bed, in field or wood, The mother will not fail to keep, Where we can lay us “down to sleep.” —Helen Hunt Jackson. |
|
