Night Thoughts

Night Thoughts

Night Thoughts

Night Thoughts



November, 1917

Ah, English forests, delicate and fine!

Ah, older England our encampments mar!

I coin, among your coppices of pine,

A little gold for leaden days of war.

The tangled oak, the beech's slender bole,

Make tracery against the morning's gray;

But what brave colors bank the hills that roll

Where drift the leaves on Princeton paths to-day?

New Jersey forests! where November grieves

To find her brightest fabrics blurred and blown,

More things are dead in Princeton than the leaves,

Nor has your flaming beauty passed alone.

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