Ephemeral Novembril, your glowing light dies quick!
Seems only yesterday you were so bright, and now you are quite sick!
What happened to those long-lost days, your seven days of fame?
And twenty-one days afterward, a softly glowing flame?

The days pass by and then they go, no longer in our mind.
And so you go, with them, alone, forever lost, resigned.
No longer are you now the greatness of this age.
No longer do your letters hang above this page.

Where do you go now when your time has passed?
Do you spend your time with Augury and Aghast?
Lost within the morning sorrows, drowning in the dew.
Lost, confused, as are we all, including me and you.

You are gone way beyond the threshold of despair.
What is it that you are doing right now over there?
Your time is over; your death has come; four weeks have passèd by.
And now you are forgotten in our readers' collective eye.