Thursday, November 16, 2023

Poem: Amy Lowell, "November"

The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house
are rusty and broken.
Dead leaves gather under the pine trees.
The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes
sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp
trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.
Even the cat will not stay with me
but prefers the rain
under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.


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