November

Poets may proclaim the praises Of some fragrant April day, Search their lexicons for phrases To describe the dew-drenched daisies Of each merry May; Minor bards may work like niggers, Framing epic rhyme or rune, To extol the timely rigours Of an English June; Though its charms I well remember, I prefer November!

Though the tourists sing together When July is warm and bright, While to sportsmen on the heather, Bent on bagging fur and feather, August brings delight; Though September's seldom stormy, And October, chill and dry, Carries joy to every Dormy- House from Wick to Rye; Yet (since I am not a member) I prefer November!

In the street the slime may spatter Ev'ry wretched passer-by; Hail and sleet and snow may batter On my window-pane--what matter? What on earth care I? Other months may be less muddy, Or a fairer face present; In my cheerful firelit study I am quite content! Seated by the glowing ember, I prefer November!