———
Fie upon thee, November! thou dost ape
The airs of thy young sisters;—thou hast stolen
The witching smile of May to grace thy lip,
And April’s rare, capricious loveliness
Thou ’rt trying to put on! Dost thou not know
Such freaks do not become thee? Thou shouldst be
A staid and sober matron, quietly
Laying aside the follies of thy youth,
And robing thee in that calm dignity