November

The wild November comes at last
      Beneath a veil of rain,
      The night wind blows its folds aside—
      Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes
      The Autumn’s vacant throne;
      She has but one short moon to live,
      And she must live alone.

A barren realm of withered fields,
      Bleak woods, and falling leaves,
      The palest morns that ever dawned;
      The dreariest of eves.

It is no wonder that she comes,
      Poor month! with tears of pain;
      For what can one so hopeless do
      But weep, and weep again.

~R.H. Stoddard (1825–1903)