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?
About this poem
"November" was originally published in Helen Hunt Jackson's "A Calendar of Sonnets" (Roberts Brothers Publishers, 1891).
About Helen Hunt Jackson
Helen Hunt Jackson was born in Amherst, Mass., in 1830. She published five collections of poetry during her lifetime and was inducted into the Colorado Women's Hall of Fame in 1985. She died in 1885.
The Academy of American Poets is a nonprofit, mission-driven organization, whose aim is to make poetry available to a wider audience. Email The Academy at poem-a-day[at]poets.org.
This poem is in the public domain. Distributed by King Features Syndicate