In November

The leafless forests slowly yield
To the thick-driving snow. A little while
And night shall darken down. In shouting file
The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,
Where the last plowman follows still his row,
Turning black furrows through the whitening field.
Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,
Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;
The hills grow wintry white, and bleak winds moan
About the naked uplands. I alone
Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor gray,
Wrapped round with thought, content to watch, and dream.
— Archibald Lampman, Canadian poet, and naturalist, In November
 

Notes:
November 17, 1861 
Today is the birthday of the Canadian poet and naturalist Archibald Lampman.
Archibald loved camping and the countryside. The natural world inspired his verse, and he became known as “The Canadian Keats.” Due to suffering from rheumatic fever in his childhood, Archibald’s life was cut short, and he died at 37. Archibald is buried at Beechwood Cemetery, in Ottawa and a plaque near his grave is inscribed with  his poem "In November.”