Dolce far niente
November’s Last Light door Allison Eklund, 2017
November
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?
Helen Maria Hunt Jackson (18 oktober 1830 – 12 augustus 1885)
Een collegegebouw in Amherst, de geboorteplaats van Helen Maria Hunt Jackson
Zie voor de schrijvers van de 18e november ook mijn twee vorige blogs van vandaag.