|I heard a Fly buzz – when I died –|
|The Stillness in the Room|
|Was like the Stillness in the Air –|
|Between the Heaves of Storm –
|The Eyes around – had wrung them dry –|
|And Breaths were gathering firm|
|For that last Onset – when the King|
|Be witnessed – in the Room –
|I willed my Keepsakes – Signed away|
|What portion of me be|
|Assignable – and then it was|
|There interposed a Fly –
|With Blue – uncertain stumbling Buzz –|
|Between the light – and me –|
|And then the Windows failed – and then|
|I could not see to see –
|Emily Dickinson | Classic Poems|
November’s the month that you get a chance,
To spend time outside a little while longer.
Warm sunny days pop up now and then,
But the wind is cooler and a little bit stronger.
Leaf’s dangling on branches here and their,
Plenty of warning before they are totally bare.
Darkness comes early, light no longer yours,
Better get busy, finish up those outdoor chores.
Repair all the the cracks in the window panes,
Clean out the twigs and leaves in your drains.
Stack up plenty of logs in a nearby covered space
You’ll have nightly warmth coming from your fireplace.
November gives you the time to put your mind at ease,
The Almanac gives warning, this winter a deep freeze.
Sitting by the fire with your coffee, you have not a care,
You were the smart one, you knew how to well prepare.
Year after year unto her feet,
She lying on her couch alone,
Across the purpled coverlet,
The maiden’s jet-black hair has grown,
On either side her tranced form
Forth streaming from a braid of pearl:
The slumbrous light is rich and warm,
And moves not on the rounded curl.
The silk star-broider’d  coverlid
Unto her limbs itself doth mould
Languidly ever; and, amid
Her full black ringlets downward roll’d,
Glows forth each softly-shadow’d arm,
With bracelets of the diamond bright:
Her constant beauty doth inform
Stillness with love, and day with light.
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard
In palace chambers far apart. 
The fragrant tresses are not stirr’d
That lie upon her charmed heart.
She sleeps: on either hand  upswells
The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest:
She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells
A perfect form in perfect rest.
Author: Alfred Lord Tennyson