November, A Poem By Helen Hunt Jackson

November, Helen Hunt Jackson, Poet Helen Hunt Jackson
Image Credit: mypoeticside.com

Helen Hunt Jackson was born in Amherst, Massachussetts, in 1830. She published five collections of poetry during her lifetime and was inducted into the Colorado Women’s Hall of Fame in 1985. She died in 1885.

This poem was originally published in Jackson’s A Calendar of Sonnets (Roberts Brothers Publishers, 1891).

November
By Helen Hunt Jackson


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
Will idly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet’s day of pain?


* This poem by Helen Hunt Jackson is found in public domain.

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