Do you see what I see, little lamb?

November sings carols for my sixty-first time.

The stuttered snow, the huddled hawk, the moon

Reposed above the pasture-scape all wait

the coming Child again, again the church

Is Mary: is the future good? How can it be

The angel’s hail is not a curse, since I’ve

not known a man. Again the carols hail

November, and again the eyes are wide

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