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 
Willidly 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?