This is the treacherous month when autumn days <br />With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts. <br />Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts <br />Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze <br />Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, <br />And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, <br />The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts <br />Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays <br />Willidly shine upon and slowly melt, <br />Too late to bid the violet live again. <br />The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; <br />Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt. <br />What joy sufficient hath November felt? <br />What profit from the violet's day of pain?<br /><br />Helen Hunt Jackson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-calendar-of-sonnets-november/
