My friend the Emily Dickinson maven sends me many a Dickinson gem that I've never come across before (I came late to her poetry). One of the latest was this November poem, with its startling final image – who but Emily Dickinson could have come up with that?
The Day grew small, surrounded tight
By early, stooping Night—
The Afternoon in Evening deep
Its Yellow shortness dropt—
The Winds went out their martial ways
The Leaves obtained excuse—
November hung his Granite Hat
Upon a nail of Plush
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