There are no children named November.

None, at least, that I know.

Are sunny days so pallid, chill and few

That not a one can bear the name?

Does the notion of impending winter

Dispel the possibility of a namesake?

Does the word itself spell something cold

About the heart, frost about the soul?

I know one whose name was bestowed

Too lightly, too generously with hope, 

Ill suited to his nature. I renounce 

My name, and wish to be more true

To what I know. Like Ishmael I choose 

A name to suit myself. Call me November.