From A Blessing for the Blessed

When the sun has left the hilltop and the daisy-fringe ifs furled,
When the birds from wood and meadow in their hidden nests are curled.
Then I think of all the babies that are sleeping the world.
There are babies in high lands and babies in the low,
There are pale one wrapped in furry-skins on the margin of the snow,
And brown ones naked in the isles where all the spices grow.

by L Alma Tadema

November

November is a spinner
Spinning in the mist,
Weaving such a lovely web
Of gold and amethyst.
In among the shadows
She spins till close of day,
Then quietly she folds her hands
And puts her work away.

by Margaret Rose