---

Sara Teasdale - November
Work rating: Low

The world is tired, the year is old, 
The little leaves are glad to die, 
The wind goes shivering with cold 
Among the rushes dry.

Our love is dying like the grass, 
And we who kissed grow coldly kind, 
Half glad to see our poor love pass 
Like leaves along the wind.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.