November Boughs
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NOVEMBER BOUGHS.
YOU LINGERING SPARSE LEAVES OF ME.
YOU lingering sparse leaves of me on winter-nearing boughs, And I some well-shorn tree of field or
orchard-row; You tokens diminute and lorn—(not now the
flush of May, nor July
clover-bloom—no grain of August now;) You pallid banner-staves—you pennants
valueless—you overstay'd of time, Yet my soul-dearest leaves—the faithfullest—
hardiest—last.
"GOING SOMEWHERE."
My science-friend, my noblest woman-friend, (Now buried in an English grave—and this amemory-leaf for her deaf sake,) Ended our talk—"The sum, concluding all
we know of old or modern learning, intui-
tions deep, Of all Geologies—Histories—of all Astronomy
—of Evolution, Metaphysics all, Is, that we all are onward, onward, speeding
slowly, surely bettering, Life, life an endless march, an endless army,
(no halt, but it is duly over,) The world, the race, the soul—in space and
time the universes, All bound as is befitting each—all surely
going somewhere."
AFTER THE SUPPER AND TALK.
After the supper and talk—after the day isdone, As a friend from friends his final withdrawal
prolonging, Good-bye and Good-bye with emotional lips
repeating, (So hard for his hand to release those hands
—no more will they meet, No more for communion of sorrow and joy,
of old and young, A far-stretching journey awaits him, to re-
turn no more,) Shunning, postponing severance—seeking to
ward off the last word ever so little, E'en at the exit-door turning—charges super-
fluous calling back—e'en as he descends
the steps, Something to eke out a minute additional—
shadows of nightfall deepening, Farewells, messages lessening—dimmer
the forth-goer's visage and form, Soon to be lost for aye in the darkness—
loth, O so loth to depart! Garrulous to the very last.
NOT MEAGRE, LATENT BOUGHS ALONE.
Not meager, latent boughs alone, O songs!(scaly and bare, like eagles' talons,) But haply for some sunny day, (who knows?)
some future spring, some summer—
bursting forth, To blossoms, verdant leaves, or sheltering
shade—to nourishing fruit, Apples and grapes—the stalward limbs
of trees emerging—the fresh, free, open
air, And love and faith, like scented roses bloom-
ing. Walt Whitman.