November comesAnd November goes,With the last red berriesAnd the first white snows.With night coming early,And dawn coming late,And ice in the bucketAnd frost by the gate.The fires burnAnd the kettles sing,And earth sinks to restUntil next spring. - Clyde Watson
Because the birdsong might be pretty,But it's not for you they sing,And if you think my winter is too cold,You don't deserve my spring. - Erin Hanson