No sooner has the sunset\'s glow poured down upon this mortal sphere,
Than chanting lyres ascend below, and lines are forged by one held dear.
As herald to the seamstress-frost, November rings with icy chime,
Yet to her fleecy fringe embossed brings more than gloom and bitter rime.
For some, November\'s freezing air is like a draught of purest wine;
Within these days, the soul laid bare will bloom where glowing lyres shine.