The ghosts of her
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown. And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
~John Updike from “A Child’s Calendar”
Yea, I have looked, and seen November there;
The changeless seal of change it seemed to be,
Fair death of things that, living once, were fair;
Bright sign of loneliness too great for me,
Strange image of the dread eternity,
In whose void patience how can these have part,
These outstretched feverish hands, this restless heart?
~William Morris, “November”