November is the saddest time in all the years; The shriveled leaves drop from the trees like human tears; Like thoughts that loose their hold on cherished spot, Thwarted of life — they, drifting down On chill November breeze, Lie still and rot, Counted as naught — forgot!
Anna M. Johnson opens "November" with a flat, almost blunt statement: this is the saddest time of the year. The rest of the poem justifies that claim through a single image, the leaves falling from the trees. They are "shriveled," and they drop "like human tears," so the whole season seems to be weeping. Then the comparison shifts. The leaves are also like thoughts losing their grip on some cherished place, ideas or memories slipping away before they can fully live.
The ending is where the feeling lands. The leaves drift down on a "chill" breeze, lie still, and rot, "counted as naught — forgot!" The short, clipped final lines drop like the leaves themselves. The speaker seems to be mourning more than a season. The poem suggests a sadness about things that are cast aside and unremembered, and the mood is quiet, heavy, and resigned, with no hint of consolation.