<html xmlns:tei="http://www.tei-c.org/ns/1.0"><body><h1 align="center" class="head">November<br xmlns:exist="http://exist.sourceforge.net/NS/exist" xmlns:html="http://www.w3.org/TR/REC-html40"/><span class="smallcaps">Five Preludes</span></h1><h1 align="center" class="head">I</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">UP dripping from the sea</p><p class="line">Her weeds all watery,</p><p class="line">She dashed against the windows as she came</p><p class="line">The fringy hem of her wet</p><p class="line">Cloak, and set</p><p class="line">Me shivering closer to the genial flame.</p><p class="line">Bleak was her face, turned westward from the grey</p><p class="line">Uncompromising dawn of a grim day,</p><p class="line">As though she would not countenance</p><p class="line">Even his ungracious greeting!</p><p class="line">O, when she turned her back on all romance</p><p class="line">And left, so long ago, the East behind her,</p><p class="line">Her heart of hope already had stopped beating.</p><p class="line">Grey woman, going by my door.</p><p class="line">There's nothing can remind her</p><p class="line">Of colour any more!</p></div><h1 align="center" class="head">II</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">O BUT a wood on a November day!--</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">Do you know the thing I say?</p><p class="line">Do you see the russet bracken</p><p class="line">That the sunlight lies among?--</p><p class="line">See the shafts of brass among the dreamy grey</p><p class="line">Pillars, where the low sun strikes, flashing?</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Above the cold still under-air</p><p class="line">In the morning, pale above you,</p><p class="line">Can you hear the north-wind passing</p><p class="line">Over with his wingy flight?</p><p class="line">Can you feel the quiet glee</p><p class="line">Of the world's untroubled heart?--</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Summer's dead, the bracken's dead:</p><p class="line">In the earth the trees have buried</p><p class="line">Safely with their sap their treasure:</p><p class="line">All for wrestling, all for mirth,</p><p class="line">They stand ready.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Do you see how glad and gay</p><p class="line">Is the Earth with all her trees?</p><p class="line">How they welcome in the season</p><p class="line">Rude and gruff ? How they give</p><p class="line">Themselves to the November</p><p class="line">Day, and to the rough</p><p class="line">Hands of winter?--</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">They have humour to enjoy</p><p class="line">The changing moods of time:</p><p class="line">To smile with the cold light and say</p><p class="line">"I take you, too, November!"</p></div><h1 align="center" class="head">III</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">HOW lovelily the larches bear their dead</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">And the young oaks carry their widow- weeds !</p><p class="line">Gladder than Spring it is to see their glory</p><p class="line">When the air is cold above the snow.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">I say it's a glad thing to see that tall young larch</p><p class="line">Standing all maiden-stately in gold apparel</p><p class="line">To welcome him who now shall strip her bare.</p><p class="line">Or yon, her sister, lovelier in thinner gossamer,</p><p class="line">As it were sunny gleaming dew-drops veiling</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">her:</p><p class="line">And to know Winter laments naught but hath his own pure splendour.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">Winter!--when you stand here amid the wood,</p><p class="line">There's some sublime gladness that summer could not tell</p><p class="line">Comes forth to praise you! Among these comrades</p><p class="line">I hear another mightier word of freedom spoken.</p></div><div class="Stanza"><p class="line">They weep, but not corrosive tears.</p><p class="line">They let grief go, it also frees them.</p><p class="line">Stedfast, evading naught, from life they withhold nothing.</p><p class="line">Even their grief is presently a toy</p><p class="line">For the spirit of young laughter.</p></div><h1 align="center" class="head">IV</h1><p>WHEN joy escapes me, it is not this sin or that I have committed, but, longing after some unattained delight, I have forgotten my Divine Companion.</p><p>Numb to His touch, what can I know of joy? It is only in His presence that my spirit ventures forth from its shadowy lair:--only responding to His touch my spirit ventures.</p><p>But I forget, and unaccountably my busy day is empty: meaningless seem the dear greetings of my friends.</p><p>In His love is my meaning: vainly I seek my self elsewhere !--I have outgrown my mind and body. My spirit is no more at home except in His companionship.</p><p>There only, is health for me, purpose and happiness. But I forget: I recognise Him not: I am no longer part of His delight, but my own burden: my body and soul heavy with a forgetfulness that cuts me off from knowing Him at hand: that, looking in His face, is still alone, and lying in His bosom, desolate. </p><h1 align="center" class="head">V</h1><div class="stanza"><p class="line">IF we withheld thee not, O thou divine delight,</p><p class="line" style="text-indent:%">Thou radiance, whom we hide in our un- happiness,</p><p class="line">Our days would shine like gold thread in the woof of night.</p><p class="line">And God would take their labour for his comely dress.</p></div><div class="stanza"><p class="line">O thou divine delight, did we withhold thee never</p><p class="line">But dared with every breath to give thee utterance,</p><p class="line">Fear would have lost his foothold on the earth for ever.</p><p class="line">All of it caught again into the starry dance.</p><p class="line">Aloof from thee, the oppressor holds himself, a stranger;</p><p class="line">The unjust shelters him from thee with shields of scorn:</p><p class="line">Mightest thou but rejoice in these, thou wouldst endanger</p><p class="line">The last withholding thrones that keep thee yet unborn.</p><p class="line">Thou art not childish glee, nor gladness only art thou:</p><p class="line">Thou art Creative Power whom we have disobeyed :</p><p class="line">Thou art the pulse of God within us here and now:</p><p class="line">'Tis not of Death--of thee O life, we are afraid.</p></div></body></html> · Great War