There’s nothing like the sun as the year dies;
Kind as it can be, this world being made so,
To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies –
To all things that it touches except snow,
Whether on mountain side or street or town.
The south wall warms me: November has begun,
Yet never shone the sun as fair as now
While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough
With spangles of the morning sun drop down
Because the starling shakes it, whistling what
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That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun,
Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s or May’s,
Or January’s or February’s – great days;
And August, September, October, and December
Have equal days, all different from November.
No day of any month but I have said –
Or, if I could live long enough, should say –
“There’s nothing like the sun that shines today.”
There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead.