ghizela rowe - a calendar of sonnets by november by helen hunt jackson lyrics
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this is the treacherous month when autumn days
with summer’s voice come bearing summer’s gifts
beguiled, the pale down+trodden aster lifts
her head and blooms again. the soft, warm haze
makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways
and, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts
the violet returns. snow noiseless sifts
ere night, an icy shroud, which morning’s rays
will idly 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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