My November

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.