by Sarah D Kirchner on November 7, 2019

Poetry

Here, November, warmth retires—
Rush to start the Winter fires!
Yet the Sun has not retreated
And left him for whom It’s needed
Without the glow which inspires.
And on the dead for which It’s whitest;
Yes, brighter, nay, the brightest;
Now on them shall It remain,
Now, on them, who have no pain.