by Mortimer Collins.
Originally published in Belgravia (John Maxwell) vol.1 #1 (Nov 1866).
On a terrace a moment we linger:
The woodlands are hidden in mist,
And numbed is my lady-love's finger,
Her lips are too iced to be kissed.
Scarce Love from that portal can flutter,
Which sweetest is marked in his chart:
Yet, though plaints of the weather lips utter,
Sweet eyes are as warm as sweet heart.
Still she says, "O my darling, remember,
If dreary and chill I appear,
I told you I thought that November
Was the very worst month in the year."
'Tis so, ah, my own! yet 'tis not so:
November with visions is rife
Of the summer we all have forgot so,
Of spring that shall wake us to life.
Look back to the thrush and the starling,
The rose-petals reddening the grass,—
Look on to the violets, my darling,
Soon sweetening the lanes as we pass:
And kiss me—kiss close—and remember,
My beauty, my sweetheart, my dove,
That even in chilly November
There's summer on lips that can love.