It is November

The year winds quickly on towards its last;
Time for November's ever shortening day:
We see November's gold, November's grey,
The naked trees, the leaves upon the grass.
We may reflect, perhaps, upon the year just past;
How springtime came then quickly went away,
And summer also had too short a say.
We wonder how the coming winter's cast.

Will we see much more rain, or is it snow
That must enclose us? Till all is done
We only guess. So now let's concentrate
Upon the present; on the things we know;
The morning mists, the pale and shallow sun,
The rushing river roaring in full spate.

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