Classic Poem

N OVEMBER is a spinster who never had a lover!
All her pretty sisters have sweethearts by the score,
Wilful April, singing June with roses wreathed above her
And the gypsy girl October flaming out from brake and cover;
But a gaunt, gray spinster is November evermore.

Brown earth beneath her feet, dull skies above her,
Not a flower anywhere nor any wings to start,
November is a spinster who never had a lover—
But when you see her sunsets you look into her heart.

I have loved her sisters, I have praised their graces,
But in gaunt, grim November I find a better thing—
A grief that asks no comforting, a heart that seeks no praises.
I'd rather have her courage than all their pretty faces,
Her honest, blunt assurance, than the promises of Spring.

Brown earth beneath her feet, bare boughs above her,
Walking through the empty fields, silent and apart,
November is a spinster who never had a lover—
And only through her sunsets you look into her heart.