This is so like November in New York. A magical time of the year: full of mystery, a little sad, pregnant with expectation.
Scel Lem Duib
Here's a song —
stags give tongue
winter snows
summer goes
High cold blow
sun is low
brief his day
seas give spray
Fern clumps redden
shapes are hidden
wildgeese raise
wonted cries
Cold now girds
wings of birds
icy time —
that's my rime.
Ninth-century, version — Flann O'Brien