A Calendar of Sonnets: November
This is the treacherous month when autumn daysWith summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster liftsHer head and blooms again. The soft, warm hazeMakes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,The violet returns. Snow noiseless siftsEre night, an icy shroud, which morning's raysWillidly shine upon and slowly melt,Too late to bid the violet live again.The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.What joy sufficient hath November felt?What profit from the violet's day of pain?
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