Old November, sere and brown, 
Clothes the country, haunts the town, 
Sheds its cloak of withered leaves, 
Brings its sighing, soughing breeze. 
Prophet of the dying year, 
Builder of its funeral bier, 
Bring your message here to men; 
Sound it forth that they may ken 
What of Life and what of Death 
Linger on your frosty breath. 
Let men know to you are given 
Days of thanks to God in heaven; 
Thanks for things which we deem best, 
Thanks, O God, for all the rest 
That have taught us--(trouble, strife, 
Bring thru Death a larger life)-- 
Death of our base self and fear-- 
(Even as the dying year, 
Though through cold and frost, shall bring 
Forth a new and glorious spring)-- 
Shall shed over us the sway 
Of a new and brighter day, 
With Hope, Faith and Love alway.