We were wont to dread November
With its garments gray and somber,
Trailing over summer pathways all too soon,
With snows that fall so lightly,
And cover, chill and whitely,
The poor, belated flowers yet in bloom,
Till we mourn the vanished beauty
Of the sunshine and the roses of the June.
But I've seen a new November
That was neither gray nor cold;
Not wearing ashen garments,
But clad in cloth of gold;
Her breath upon the hillsides,
Had the gentle grace of spring,
And the summer's wealth of color
Did her queenly presence bring.
Beyond the spring-time tender,
And summer's lavish wonder,
Was the rare and finished splendor--
The rounded, grown-up beauty
Of this marvelous November.
We are wont to dread November,
In the autumn of our years,
When over life's bright hilltops
Has come the rain of tears;
When the tender green of childhood
Is changed to sober gray,
And youth, the time of roses,
From us has passed away,
While the early frost-time lieth
On hair that's turning gray.
We fear our life's November,
With her chastened eyes and calm,
As she hushes gayer music,
With the music of a psalm;
And we turn toward the pathways,
Once thick with fairest flowers,
And listen for the voices
Filling once the summer bowers;
But find that over all things
A graver hue has grown,
And hear but far-off echoes
Like trumpets softly blown,
Till all our spring and summer
Is seen through mists and tears,
As stately, calm November
Comes across the rounded years,
And we say the summer's over,
The time of frost is here.
But I have seen a glory
Break softly over life,
A mellow autumn richness,
With largest blessings rife,
A peace beyond the battle,
A sunshine after rain,
The sound of tear-drops melting
In a song that had no pain;
Sun-love, that bloomed in spring-time,
Grown strong in summer's heat,
Pass into ripe perfection
All glorified, complete,
Until life's spring-time tender,
Her mid-year's wealth of wonder,
Could ever match the splendor
Of the Beulah land, that thrills
'Neath the light from heavenly hills,
And crowns, like any hero, life's November.
Beneath such skies of Beauty,
To-night, dear hearts, you stand,
Where life's first ripened clusters
Are dropping to your hand.
Small need to mourn the flowers
You left beside the way,
When God gives back the fruitage
Of well-spent years today.
There is no room for sadness--
For aught but simple gladness,
As you count the long years over
Since you were maid and lover,
And know that twenty-five had fled away.
Then take the long look backward
Tonight, without a tear,
And to to memory's guiding,
With never thought of fear,
Across the vanished seasons
Whose timely sun and shower
Have brought the finished beauty
That crowns this happy hour.
The winsome days of childhood
Come back with all their spell,
The echo of sweet laughter
In haunts you loved so well;
Your early home, a vision
No other sight could dim,
Framed now like silver pictures
In memory's golden rim.
You remember morning greetings,
And evening's solemn prayer,
The touch of mother's fingers
On the rings of sunny hair,
The brothers and the sisters
That shared your love and--pie,
The sweet, immortal little things
That never fade or die.
And this was merry spring-time,
When early violets grew,
And gold-winged butterflies you chased
Were not so glad as you;
And then the grasses deepened,
More blossoms came each day,
Till laughing childhood rounded
To youth's own perfect May.
Ah! then what starry flowers
Made bright the path you trod,
When love came down to greet you
From the very hills of God!
I may not tell the story
Exactly how it ran,
With dreams, and bliss, and blushes--
Deny it if you can!
The rapturous, sweet old story,
Told since the world began,
And then the vow low-spoken,
That never can be broken,
The wedding day of hearts as well as hands.
It seems no more than yesterday,
This union of two lives,
And yet when counted slowly,
The years are twenty-five!
But for the tall grown children,
That came to bring you joy,
And now a wedding in your house,
The wedding of your boy;
You could not think so many years had fled,
Since in life's rose-time you yourselves were wed.
From that far land of roses
Together you have come;
Some storm, some cloud, some sunshine,
The will of God hath done.
You have left a path behind you
Made smooth for other feet,
Nor spared your life's own fragrance
In making others sweet.
You have shunned the pathways golden,
Where worldlings seek the best,
And walked the highway olden
Your Master's feet had pressed--
Your life's endeavor like his own,
In making others' blest.
What wonder you are passing
Within the golden haze,
The mellow, ripened splendor
Of your fragrant harvest days?
Not yet the snows have fallen,
Not yet the tempests beat;
Life's gathered years are mingled
In a beauty rare and sweet,
Where all the bliss of tested love
Is perfect and complete.
We meet you on those golden hills
That lie toward your west--
The hill of faith above the storm
Where souls find deepest rest.
We greet you where your lifted eyes
Have caught the glow of light
That falls from out the "other land"
Which has no storm or night.
We greet you in the golden calm
Which is the victor's rightful palm,
Even this side the walls that bound
The City of Delight.
