A November Sonnet

It is enough, perhaps, that you are near;
You bring a moist caress, a seeming sweat,
And even lovers loved learn to forget
Those other touches they once held so dear.
But November, my love, believe, sincere,
That it is you, your dusk, your always wet
That pains me most, once gone, ensures regret,
And makes of festive dates an empty cheer.
So, ninth month in name, eleventh in time
May you always remain, embrace with chill;
And if your weeks should pass, your days should end
Leave something of your cold, your damp sublime,
That mortals, such as I, might live until
You come again, return to me, my friend.