Here is another November poem by Teasdale.
The world is tired, the year is old,
The little leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Among the rushes dry.
Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our poor love pass
Like leaves along the wind.
Here is another November poem.
I am still waiting to find a poem about November that says something like,
"November, I love November, it makes me feel so great, and the whole world finally reveals its essence to me, like true intimacy between lovers. All the world seems bright and crisp, and full of hidden promise in November, and no one ever worries about the f**cking daffodils. November, I love November, it is the month for me!"