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A Calendar Of Sonnets: November

Rating: 2.8

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Willidly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.

The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
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COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Tapan M. Saren 02 September 2016

Truly very beautiful poetry...

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Susan Williams 02 April 2016

Nailed it! ! ! ! Which does not surprise me about Helen Hunt Jackson who personifies all that is magnificent and humble and beautiful and savage about the true poet in this complexly beautiful and cruel world.

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