Sarah Teasdale

Here you will find the Poem November of poet Sarah Teasdale


The world is tired, the year is old,
 The fading leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
 Where the brown reeds are dry.

Our love is dying like the grass,
 And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our old love pass
 Like leaves along the wind.