’Tain’t the Season
November, November, you come in with a bang –
Enough to shake the leaves down from the trees.
The effigies are burnt, although by rights they ought to hang,
But then drawing strews their stuffing to the breeze.
Remember, November, the trenches and the mud,
And the generation buried underneath –
Then wince at all the pageantry, the polished clasp and stud,
And just pray they lay down more than just the wreath.
Now is not the time for carols,
Robin cards or gay apparel.
Don’t start rolling out the barrel –
Ah, sweet November !
November, November, the Leonids are streaming,
And also comes the frosty Hunter’s Moon.
Aurora too, if lucky. Old Orion’s up there dreaming,
And Sirius is seen late-afternoon.
An ember, November, of Autumn’s final rays –
The sun can still remove a coat or two.
Across the pond, they’re Giving-Thanks, so let us give our praise
To the month we shouldn’t rush to hurry through.
Now is not the time for holly,
Mistletoe or red-fat-jolly.
Let’s enjoy without such folly –
Ah, sweet November !
