by Clara Ophelia Bland
The seasons in their changes rest the heart,
November now is speaking to my soul,
Calling it from worldly ways apart
To spend some holy moments, 'ere they roll
Backward to Time's ocean, oh! so vast!
Leaves of woodland rustle o'er my head,
Outward is the golden grain amassed
Which shall yield the winter's bread.
The quiet scene of beauty brings sweet peace,
The horn of plenty has been opened wide.
A thought within my heart knows no surcease,
Casting sensuous things of earth aside.
Since Christ died, the cause for thankfulness has been,
That His redeeming blood can wash away all sin.