CCXXXVII: The Seven Days of November: i

Not so cold, after all, you seem to be.

At least when the Sun shines during the day.

But if a cloud should hide him, or a tree,

ah! then we see how cold you are. How gray.

A holiday approaches. It is all

that keeps us from descending into gloom.

Embrace it! It is still, after all, Fall;

we need not drink a much-too-early doom.

November, I have loved you much before—

a child can still see what I cannot.

But now I stare at what you hold in store:

surcease from all the warmth that we have sought.

How harsh I judge. It is not you, but me

that overplays the winter beyond thee.