November

By E. C

I would forget so many things;
The moaning wind, and rain,
Uncanny sounds of ghostly hands
At door and window pane.

I would forget the perished leaves
And grass, dismantled trees—
Old loves and hopes, the youth of me
That passed away with these.

But when I see November come,
How shall I then forget;
The other years return with her—
Remembrance and regret.

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