  A THOUSAND welcomes let us sing To that dear old November fog Which harbingers the days that bring The early gas, the flaming log. Ah! well we know, sweet fog, when first You wrap the town in your embrace, The winter from its shell has burst, And come to bless the human race. I love the merry winter when The day is darker than the night, For then, contented in my den, I sit beside the fire and write. I love the fog that wraps in gloom My second-class suburban square; For then within my dingy room I light the gas, and let it flare. I hate the dreary days and love The nights that shut the black world out; And so I prize, all things above, The fog that puts the day to rout. |
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