The Lady broods too much, methinks, 
as Ever is Love's span of wings,
the breath, the sound of the harp's strings.

Those who are gone, they do rejoice,
merrily wearing gowns of light,
crossing rainbows, stars delight.

Let us now wear this dark and grey November
as we would a soft blanket: one befitting
when occupied with knitting, stitching...
(see this day's entry here)