November November It has no joy I’ll remember.
No Ornate Leaf upon the lofty tree,
The weaving Butterfly and Buzzing Bee.
No Sun as such to warm the Brow
No Milky-Haze along the Meadow now.
No ‘Monet-Blue’ to bleach the Sky,
With tuneful call of Songbirds by.
No flowering Blush of Gardens wide,
To Sunday Meals by the Riverside.
Rich boiling Dawns that ‘Vulcan’ strikes,
The Sultry Dusk of August Nights.
No Cooling Drinks beneath the shade,
Thereby all Mirth and Friendships made.
With Evening Walks through Field and Dale ,
To Village Inn and English Ale.
For the Sun fulfilled its tenancy well,
And in Balmy days my Memories dwell.
But as for Dreary, Sodden, Damp November;
It has no joy or Soul I’ll remember.