November rain descends in angry spatters
on crumbling leaves that lie in tatters
on chilly ground that waits its winter sleep.
Forgotten flowers bow heads and weep.


Chilly drops—what purpose in their minds begot
to wet the ground when it matters not?
Grumbling clouds grow grayer still;
speak to all of nature's will.


November rain brings back to mind
showers of May, left so far behind.
She was my mistress—we danced and sang
'til the toll of age and duty rang.


Had we dallied just a little while,
waited for the moistened earth to smile,
with fertile soil and sun-warmed air,
would the partaking have been so unfair?


We were profligate in spending our youthful days.
'Til time and age bade us mend our ways.
We were indifferent to fleeting of joyous times.
And now to repent—the hour chimes.