…by Hilaire Belloc
Look, how those steep woods on the mountain’s face
Burn, burn against the sunset; now the cold
Invades our very noon: the year’s grown old,
Mornings are dark, and evenings come apace.
The vines below have lost their purple grace,
And in Forreze the white wrack backward rolled,
Hangs to the hills
Need a chuckle? Chesterton’s nonsense verse is the antidote to all of life’s little foibles!
The winter moon has such a quiet car
That all the winter nights are dumb with rest.
Though our current literary establishment continues to lift its collective nose at the poetry of Robert Service, his poems continue to delight new readers and his books continue to fly off the shelf.
November is that historied Emperor,
Conquered in age, but foot to foot with fate