Explore "A Calendar of Sonnets" by Helen Hunt Jackson on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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?