Dear child, thou need'st not fear.

"Come unto me. I'll give thee rest,

Will wipe away each tear;

Come lean thy head upon my breast;

Dear child, thou need'st not fear."

NOVEMBER

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice.—Psalm 5:11.

November is so drear and chill

Whilst making leafless branch and tree,

Whilst sweeping over vale and hill

With all her doleful minstrelsy.

November wails the summer's death

In such a melancholy voice,

She has a withering, blighting breath;

She does not bid the heart rejoice.

Yet why repine, thou stricken one?

Grief is the common fate of all.

This the refrain beneath the sun:

Mortals must die, and leaves must fall.

They'll live again, the leaves and flowers,

 Prev. P 21/57 next