November always seemed to me the Norway of the year. - Emily Dickinson

This was in the white of the year,
That was in the green,
Drifts were as difficult then to think
As daisies now to be seen.

Looking back is best that is left,
Or if it be before,
Retrospection is prospect’s half,
Sometimes almost more.

"Hope" is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul — And sings the tune without the words — And never stops — at all — And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard — And sore must be the storm — That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —

We cherish all the past, we glide a-down the present, awake yet dreaming; but the future of ours together — there the bird sings loudest, and the sun shines always there...