November is some historied Emperor,
Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate,
Who from his refuge high has caught the roar
Of squadrons in pursuit, and now, too late,
Stirrups the storm and calls the winds to war,
And arms the garrison of his last heir-loom,
And shakes the sky to its extremest shore
With battle against irrevocable doom.
Till, driven and hurled from his strong citadels,
He flies in hurrying cloud; and spurs him on
Empty of lingerings, empty of farewells
And final benedictions, and is gone.
But in my garden all the trees have shed
Their legacies of the light, and all the flowers are dead.