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November Poems

Nov 9, 2018

Image:  Last leaves - clipartpanda.com

"How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow."
- Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

"I saw the lovely arch
Of rainbow span the sky,
The gold sun burning
As the rain swept by."
-   Elizabeth Coatsworth, November


"Dull November brings the blast,
Then the leaves are whirling fast."
- Sara Coleridge


"O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being.
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing."
- Percy Bysshe Shelley


"In the garden, Autumn is, indeed the crowning glory of the year, bringing us the fruition of months of thought
and care and toil.  And at no season, safe perhaps in Daffodil time, do we get such superb colour effects as
from August to November."
- Rose G. Kingsley, The Autumn Garden


"November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.

With night coming early,
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.

The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring."
- Elizabeth Coatsworth


Spring's wakening bugle long is hushed,

Long dimm'd is Summer's splendour;

October yields her easel bright

To "black and white" November!

~James Rigg, "November," Wild Flower Lyrics and Other Poems, 1897

 
I have come to regard November as the older, harder man's October. I appreciate the early darkness and cooler temperatures. It puts my mind in a different place than October. It is a month for a quieter, slightly more subdued celebration of summer's death as winter tightens its grip. ~Henry Rollins, "Empowerment Through Libraries," November 2013, LA Weekly

How sad would be November if we had no knowledge of the spring! ~Edwin Way Teale, Circle of the Seasons, 1953

October's foliage yellows with his cold:

In rattling showers dark November's rain,

From every stormy cloud, descends amain,

Till keen December's snows close up the year again.

~John Ruskin, "The Months," c.1834

November, n. The eleventh twelfth of a weariness. ~ Ambrose Bierce (1842–c.1914), The Devil's Dictionary

The wild November comes at last

      Beneath a veil of rain,

      The night wind blows its folds aside—

      Her face is full of pain.

The latest of her race, she takes

      The Autumn's vacant throne;

      She has but one short moon to live,

      And she must live alone.

~R.H. Stoddard (1825–1903), "November," c.1863

A barren realm of withered fields,

      Bleak woods, and falling leaves,

      The palest morns that ever dawned;

      The dreariest of eves.

It is no wonder that she comes,

      Poor month! with tears of pain;

      For what can one so hopeless do

      But weep, and weep again.

~R.H. Stoddard (1825–1903), "November," c.1863

Fear not November's challenge bold—

We've books and friends,

And hearths that never can grow cold:

These make amends!

~Alexander L. Fraser (1870–1954), "November," c.1918

The world is tired, the year is old,

The faded leaves are glad to die...

~Sara Teasdale, "November"

That soft autumnal time...

The woodland foliage now

Is gathered by the wild November blast...

~John Howard Bryant (1807-1902), "The Indian Summer"

And November sad,—a psalm

Tender, trustful, full of balm,

Thou must breathe in spirits calm.

~Caroline May, 1887



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