Late autumn surrounds the speaker with decay: vine leaves against the brick wall are rusty and broken, dead needles gather under the pines, and brittle lilac branches scrape against the stars. Everything she notices is worn out or exposed to the cold. Indoors, she sits beneath a lamp, trying to write down the emptiness in her heart—a hollow ache more than a clear grief. Even the cat refuses her company, preferring the cold rain and the thin shelter of a cellar window. The cat’s choice of a wet hiding place over her lamp-lit room feels quietly painful. The mood is bare and bleak, with no dramatic outburst, only the dull weight of being alone. The ruined garden mirrors her inner life, as if warmth and connection have drained away with the season.
November — Summary
The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house Are rusty and broken. Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees, The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes Sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart. Even the cat will not stay with me, But prefers the rain Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.