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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348128" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In November (1)</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=348128" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The leafless forests slowly yield <br> To the thick-driving snow. A little while<br> And night shall darken down. In shouting file<br> The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,<br> Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,<br> Now golden-gray, sowed softly through with snow,<br> Where the last ploughman follows still his row,<br> Turning black furrows through the whitening field.<br> Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,<br> Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;<br> The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan<br> About the naked uplands. I alone<br> Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray,<br> Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a></strong></div>

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