A Calendar of Sonnets: November
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
Willidly 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?
Helen Hunt Jackson
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
More Poems by Helen Hunt Jackson
Comments, Analysis, and Meaning on A Calendar of Sonnets: November
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem A Calendar of Sonnets: November here.
Commenting turned off, sorry.