They’ve fallen from the trees that now stand nude and pale,
So leaves my soul to figure what they hold;
I’m lying to myself (no falsehood in this tale),
but on my mind dwell truths about the cold.
Is the weather not presaging what will happen
to grass ploughed well in April, May, and June?
Hand in glove with you is He, nothing’ll mishappen
but the gloves you have worn may wear out soon.
Well, November wears a mask just like we all do,
the sun it shields oft with that dented mask;
I bring some joys home after trodding lanes at two,
‘Some more time!’ say heart and mind as I bask.
More happiness does it bring to lay oneself down
here than the pleasures we obtain at home;
For the wintry weather when confabs with the town,
the daffodils bloom while we freely roam.
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‘Fallen leaves lying on the grass in the November sun bring more happiness than the daffodils.’Cyril Connolly
Categories: Acrostic Poetry