November Song

Was there ever a bard who failed to remember

The song of the soaring lark

And penned an ode to November

With its growing cold and dark?

And as the year began to fizzle

Who scorned the buds of May

To sing of the gloomy drizzle

And praise the shortening day?

But I who romped ‘neath April’s sky

Trudge out when the warmth’s unseasonable,

To walk the world ere the year must die,

And stoutly resolve to be reasonable.

I look for beauty in somber hues

And scuff the fallen leaves.

I take my song from a stalwart muse

And shun the one who grieves.