A Calendar of Sonnets by November by Helen Hunt Jackson

Lyrics

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?