“The Night is Freezing Fast” , A November Poem By A E Housman Is About remembering , on the eve of December , an old friend who died and The hateful cold doesn’t bother him. : : : :
Notes for each of the lines Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India May 25 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Rita Dove born in Akron, Ohio in 1952. Rita Dove was born in Akron, Ohio in 1952. A 1970 Presidential Scholar, she attended Miami University of Ohio, Universität Tübingen in Germany, and the University of Iowa, where she earned her creative writing MFA in 1977. In 1987, she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for her third collection of poetry, Thomas and Beulah, and from 1993 to 1995, she served as U.S. Poet Laureate at the Library of Congress. Dove is a recipient of the 2022 Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize.
Author of a novel, a book of short stories, essays, and numerous volumes of poetry, among them the National Book Award finalist and NAACP Image Award winner Collected Poems 1974–2004, she also edited The Best American Poetry 2000 and the Penguin Anthology of 20th-Century American Poetry (2011). Dove wrote poetry columns for the New York Times Magazine from 2018 to 2019 and The Washington Post from 2000 to 2002. Her drama The Darker Face of the Earth opened at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in 1996 and the Kennedy Center in Washington in 1997, followed by its European premiere at the National Theatre in London in 1999. Her song cycle Seven for Luck, with music by John Williams, was premiered by Cynthia Haymon with the Boston Symphony in 1998, and her song sequence A Standing Witness, 14 poems with music by Richard Danielpour, was sung by Susan Graham with the Copland House musicians at the Kennedy Center, the Tanglewood Music Festival, and other venues in 2021 and 2022. W.W. Norton published Dove’s latest volume of poems, Playlist for the Apocalypse, called “a vital collection of poems about history and mortality” by the New York Times while naming it a Top Book of 2021.
Dove’s numerous honors include Lifetime Achievement Medals from the Library of Virginia and the Fulbright Association, the 2014 Carole Weinstein Poetry Prize, the 2019 Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, and the 2021 Gold Medal for Poetry from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, the 16th (and third female and first African American) poet in the Medal’s 110-year history. In 1996, she received the National Humanities Medal from President Bill Clinton and in 2011, the National Medal of Arts from President Barack Obama—the only poet ever to receive both medals. To date, 29 honorary doctorates have been conferred upon Dove, most recently by Yale University, Emory University, Smith College, Harvard University, the University of Michigan, and the University of Iowa. She has served as president of the Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP), as a chancellor of Phi Beta Kappa, and as a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets. A member of the American Philosophical Society, the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, and the American Academy of Arts and Letters, she teaches at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville, where she is the Henry Hoyns Professor of Creative Writing. ( Photo courtesy by The Poet ) and Poet’s Biography From poetryfoundation.org“November For Beginners” By Rita Dove appears in Poetry : 100 Years : Issue of June 2012.
“November for Beginners ” : : Rita Dove: : Snow would be the easy way out—that softening sky like a sigh of relief at finally being allowed to yield. No dice. We stack twigs for burning in glistening patches but the rain won’t give.
So we wait, breeding mood, making music of decline. We sit down in the smell of the past and rise in a light that is already leaving. We ache in secret, memorizing
a gloomy line or two of German. When spring comes we promise to act the fool. Pour, rain! Sail, wind, with your cargo of zithers!
— Rita Dove : : November 1981
Source: Poetry( June 2012 ). : From poetryfoundation.org For Educational Purposes only.
“November For Beginners”, A Witty and moving November Poem by America’s greatest contemporary poets , is About the ‘right’ way to do November. : : She talks not only about herself but also about Others ( as she speaks in second person : “We”. She tells what would happen at some time in her childhood and what she would do which is plainly taken for granted.Moreover she also talks about spring when as she says, “We promise to act the fool.”This is playful and the same playfulness can be obviously noted as she talks about stacking twigs for burning , making music which describe weather, the sameway while “sharing secrets and while talking about Spring. Her talking is as good as we read from her childhood diary of monologues.
“November For Beginners “, A Poem about Childhood at the time of November, Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India May 24 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Edward Thomas : : Philip Edward Thomas was an Anglo-Welsh writer of prose and poetry. He is commonly considered a war poet, although few of his poems deal directly with his war experiences. Already an accomplished writer, Thomas turned to poetry only in 1914. He enlisted in the army in 1915, and was killed in action during the Battle of Arras in 1917, soon after he arrived in France.
MAY 23 by EDWARD THOMAS
There never was a finer day, And never will be while May is May,— The third, and not the last of its kind; But though fair and clear the two behind Seemed pursued by tempests overpast; And the morrow with fear that it could not last Was spoiled. To-day ere the stones were warm Five minutes of thunderstorm Dashed it with rain, as if to secure, By one tear, its beauty the luck to endure.
At mid-day then along the lane Old Jack Noman appeared again, Jaunty and old, crooked and tall, And stopped and grinned at me over the wall, With a cowslip bunch in his button-hole And one in his cap. Who could say if his roll Came from flints in the road, the weather, or ale? He was welcome as the nightingale. Not an hour of the sun had been wasted on Jack. ‘I’ve got my Indian complexion back’ Said he. He was tanned like a harvester, Like his short clay pipe, like the leaf and bur That clung to his coat from last night’s bed, Like the ploughland crumbling red. Fairer flowers were none on the earth Than his cowslips wet with the dew of their birth, Or fresher leaves than the cress in his basket. ‘Where did they come from, Jack?’ ‘Don’t ask it, And you’ll be told no lies.’ ‘Very well: Then I can’t buy.’ ‘I don’t want to sell. Take them and these flowers, too, free. Perhaps you have something to give me? Wait till next time. The better the day . . . The Lord couldn’t make a better, I say; If he could, he never has done.’ So off went Jack with his roll-walk-run, Leaving his cresses from Oakshott rill And his cowslips from Wheatham hill.
‘Twas the first day that the midges bit; But though they bit me, I was glad of it: Of the dust in my face, too, I was glad. Spring could do nothing to make me sad. Bluebells hid all the ruts in the copse, The elm seeds lay in the road like hops, That fine day, May the twenty-third, The day Jack Noman disappeared.Charles Thomas Wheeler (1892-1974), “Winter Sun” (c. 1970) : : : : On November 1, Thomas made the following entry in one of his notebooks: “Sweet as last damsons on spangled tree when November starling imitates the swallow in sunny interval between rain and all is still and dripping.” In her note to this poem, Edna Longley identifies the first line of Shakespeare’s Sonnet CXXX (“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun )☀️
There’s Nothing Like The Sun by Philip Edward Thomas THERE’S nothing like the sun as the year dies, 1 Kind as it can be, this world being made so,2 To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, 3 To all things that it touches except snow, 4 Whether on mountain side or street of town. 5 The south wall warms me: November has begun,6 Yet never shone the sun as fair as now7 While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough 8 With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down 9 Because the starling shakes it, whistling what10 Once swallows sang. But I have not forgot 11 That there is nothing, too, like March’s sun,12 Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s,13 Or January’s, or February’s, great days: 14 And August, September, October, and December 15 Have equal days, all different from November. 16 No day of any month but I have said– 17 Or, if I could live long enough, should say– 18 “There’s nothing like the sun that shines to-day” 19 There’s nothing like the sun till we are dead. 20 — EdwardThomas
“There is Nothing Like The Sun”, Written in 1915 When he was posted to Hare Hall Camp by the army, ( where he served as a map-reading instructor for recently commissioned officers. ) A 20 lines November Poem By one of the early twentieth century’s greatest nature poets , Edward Thomas is About The beauty of the late autumn sun in the month ofNovember. : :
The November Sun is “kind To stones and men and beasts and birds and flies, To all things that it touches except snow, Whether on mountain side or street of town. ” ( lines 3 , 4 & 5 ) : : We find in the lines of this Sun Poem Or A November Poem, a feeling of Edward’s presence, his living at the camp surrounded by beautiful Natural World, so. the Poem is Sweet- breathed stimulation as with “The south wall warms me, November has begun” ( line 6 ) : “Yet never shone the sun as fair as now “7 , that is sensible and mod ( line 7 ) as if the felt energy not in excess can become a transcribed announcement in November Only , which then broadcasts itself with further percept that follows although the “year dies” lines 1 & 20 ) and The Poet has not forgotten March’s sun, 12 Like April’s, or July’s, or June’s, or May’s, 13 Or January’s, or February’s, great days: 14 And August, September, October, and December 15 Have equal days, all different from November. ( lines 12 To 16 )
A quick look of late-season dark 🟣 Purple Plums falling from a branch of A damson tree , at the same time as a few drops of rainwater, all shaken from the bough ( by the gregarious Starling bird whistling as in (line 10 ) , thus by the meresinging of a songbird , “swallows” ( small bird with long wings with swift flight known for regularity of migration on Fall ) sang as in line 11, as in ( lines 8 To 11 ) , ” While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough 8 With spangles of the morning’s storm drop down 9 Because the starling shakes it, whistling what 10 Once swallows sang.. . “11. : Rain drops “of the morning’s storm drop down” ( line 9 ) glitter as if covered with “spangles”small shining pieces that look like adornment. : The enhanced image with changing of the seasons is greatly enjoyable with The finest lines of Natural World View of The Great Nature Poet. : : There’a a sort of Volta at the end, which could be rib-tickling but for World War I, as The Poet says, “Or, if I could live longenough, shouldsay– 18 “There’s nothing like the sun that shines to-day” 19 There’s nothing like the sun till we aredead.” 20 : :
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“There Is Nothing Like The Sun” November Poem / Sun Poem By Edward Thomas Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India May 23 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Young Amy Lowell : . “Does this hat make my…oh, forget it…” : : She came from a wealthy and prestigious family. she wasn’t content with being a patron, she believed herself a poet and a critic, and worked extraordinarily hard in her short career at exercising herself in those roles. Some of the most poets / critics of her time didn’t think much of her work as hierarchies and opinions were being formed by those that outlived her death in1925. *A year after her death in 1925 she was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for poetry. Besides editing she helped to publish several anthologies of Modernist verse, she promoted it by popular lectures and articles . Louis Untermeyer in his summarizing American Poetry Since 1900 published in 1923 says that “No poet living in America has been more fought for, fought against and generally fought about than Amy Lowell.” He does praise her and writes about her work as promoter and provocateur: “Her verve is almost as remarkable as her verse” Modernism after 50 years was a sausage-fest. Yet the 21st century will have to re-evaluate her efforts in Poetry for the Modern World. ( Based on blog frankhudson.org ) Bare Boroughs
November : : By Amy Lowell ( ) Boston Massachusetts : : : : The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house, 1 Are rusty and broken. 2 Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees, 3 The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes 4 Sweep against the stars. 5 And I sit under a lamp 6 Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart. 7 Even the cat will not stay with me, 8 But prefers the rain 9 Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window. 10
— Amy Lowell
“November”A 10 lines Short ,simple yet subtle Verse- free imagist poem / November PoemBy An AmericanPoet Amy Lowell is About the November landscape. The short – lived Imagism, poetic movement Ezra Pound founded in 1912 ( but left afterwards ) was taken over by fellow American Amy Lowell duly known as ‘Amy-gism’ as Pound referred to it in slighting mannerthereafter. She came in to see Ezra Pound and other imagist poets for a brief period in London. She popularized it mainly between 1915 & 1925. Pound said that Lowell’s promotion of the same poetic principles that he had been propounding was a descent into “Amygism.” D. H. Lawrence said of her work “In everything she did she was a good amateur.” Witter Bynner played a joke to mock this form of Modernism labelled the overweight Lowell as the “hippopoetess.”. ; : : :
Lines 1 To 5 are depiction of The Poet’s Observation. : : “The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house, 1 Are rusty and broken. 2 Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees, 3 The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes 4 Sweep against the stars. 5 : : : : The images of Natural World, depicted figuratively : : The vine leaves ( ” rusty and broken ” ) against the brick walls of the house , dead leaves gathered under the Pine – trees. Brittle boughs of lilac – bushes , hence bare and dark. Dried , broken yet fresh as coloured. The description draw the necessary setting of the poem. The images should have to relay the sound of the crisp leaves intensified like the one heard from a Stethoscope 🩺 against the housing walls. The Dead image of fallen leaves gathered under the green Pine – trees are petty image. The sound of the breakable ( “brittle “) boughs of lilac- bushes “sweep” against the overhead starlight, seems as cold – hearted ; lacking warmth andgenerosity.
The poet is too under the lights of a lamp trying to write ✍️ down with a sweep stroke of the hand , ❤️ ” the emptiness of ( his ) heart 💜 : : As in lines 6 To 10 : : : : And I sit under a lamp 6 Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart. 7 Even the cat will not stay with me, 8 But prefers the rain 9 Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window. “10 : : : : And this Poet – Writer is alone under the lamp trying to observe freshness of the leaves : But “The emptiness of my heart.” Is her yearning : Double- edged as that with autumnal November Leaves. She likes to try find how she feels being alive with her search of charming elements in the Natural World that surrounds her. It seems that the self-reflection of a cold – hearted fill – ups is lacking warmth which she calls an “empty heart” hollowed out even under the influence of Natural World. And , Finally noticed is meagrely sheltered creature : the cat who “will not stay with” the Poet. ( line 8 ) ” But prefers the rain” ( line 9 ) “Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window. “10 and crawls along inside an insufficientor “meagre” shelterof “cellar window.”, that is ‘basement store room. : : Thus the intricateness of feelings, magically brought in to poetic existence, in the Imagist manner , in the scenes , depicted with Autumnal leaves in November , A Cat disappearing into her insufficient shelter and The Poet under the shelter of 🛋️ lamp light 🚨 of the night in November.That’sAn artisanal Amygism..
“November”, An American Imaginist Poem By Amy Lowell Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India May 22 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
Walter de t Mare ( 1873 – 1956 ) Headshot of poet Walter de la Mare, fingers resting on cheek. Walter de la Mare, born on April 25, 1873 in London, is considered one of modern literature’s chief exemplars of the romantic imagination. His complete works form a sustained treatment of romantic themes: dreams, death, rare states of mind and emotion, fantasy worlds of childhood, and the pursuit of the transcendent.
As a youth he attended St. Paul’s Cathedral School, and his formal education did not extend beyond this point. Upon graduation he went to work for the Anglo-American (Standard) Oil Company, remaining with the firm for 18 years. De la Mare began writing short stories and poetry while working as a bookkeeper in the company’s London office during the 1890s. His first published short story, “Kismet,” appeared in the journal Sketch in 1895. In 1902 he published his first major work, the poetry collection Songs of Childhood, which was recognized as a significant example of children’s literature for its creative imagery and variety of meters. Critics often assert that a childlike richness of imagination influenced everything de la Mare wrote, emphasizing his frequent depiction of childhood as a time of intuition, deep emotion, and closeness to spiritual truth. In 1908, following the publication of his novel Henry Brocken and the poetry collection titled Poems, de la Mare was granted a Civil List pension, enabling him to terminate his corporate employment and focus exclusively on writing.
The appearance of Songs of Childhood introduced de la Mare as a talented author of children’s literature, a genre in which he produced collections of fiction and verse, and several highly praised anthologies. Conrad Aiken, writing in his Scepticisms: Notes on Contemporary Poetry in 1919 found that de la Mare’s Peacock Pie “contains some of the most delightful work he has done.” The world of childhood, however, is only a facet of de la Mare’s work.
As a poet de la Mare is often compared with Thomas Hardy and William Blake for their respective themes of mortality and visionary illumination. His greatest concern was the creation of a dreamlike tone implying a tangible but nonspecific transcendent reality. This characteristic of the poems has drawn many admirers, though also eliciting criticism that the poet indulged in an undefined sense of mystery without systematic acceptance of any specific doctrine. Some commentators also criticize the poetry for having an archness of tone more suitable for children’s verse, while others value this playful quality. It is generally agreed, however, that de la Mare was a skillful manipulator of poetic structure, a skill that is particularly evident in the earlier collections.
With The Burning Glass and Other Poems critics perceived a falling off from the author’s past artistic virtuosity, which afterward was only periodically regained. According to Henry Charles Duffin in his Walter de la Mare: A Study of His Poetry (1949), the “poetry of Walter de la Mare is not essentially either a criticism of life or (as some think it) an escape from life. It will fulfill both these functions for those who require them, but the primary end of de la Mare’s poetry is to heighten life.”
Closely linked with his poetry in theme and mood are de la Mare’s short stories. Collections like The Riddle are imbued with the same indefiniteness and aura of fantasy as his poetry. In a review of The Connoisseur, and Other Stories, a critic for the Times Literary Supplement asserted in 1926 that “de la Mare has the poet’s imagination, and it is a poetic emotion that delights us in his stories.” Another favorable appraisal of de la Mare’s short fiction came from John H. Wills, who wrote in the North Dakota Quarterly that “de la Mare is the most underrated short story writer in the English language.” As a short story writer, de la Mare is frequently compared to Henry James, particularly for his elaborate prose style and his ambiguous, often obscure treatment of supernatural themes. This latter quality is particularly apparent in de la Mare’s frequently discussed short story “The Riddle,” in which seven children go to live with their grandmother after the death of their father. The grandmother warns the children that they may play anywhere in the house except in an old oak chest in one of the spare bedrooms. Nevertheless, the children are drawn by ones and twos to play in the trunk, where they mysteriously disappear. While the meaning of their disappearance remains enigmatic, commentators have generally interpreted the events as a symbolic presentation of aging and death.
The novels of de la Mare rival his poetry in importance. His early novels, such as Henry Brocken (1904), are works of fantasy written in a genre traditionally reserved for realistic subjects. In his tale of supernatural possession, The Return (1911), de la Mare deals with a primarily naturalistic world while maintaining a fantastic element as the thematic core. Even though it contains no fantasy in a strict sense, Memoirs of a Midget (1921) includes a strong ingredient of the unusual and is considered by many critics to be a masterpiece. Storm Jameson in the English Review called the novel “the most notable achievement in prose fiction of our generation,” and J.C. Squire, in his Books Reviewed: Critical Essays on Books and Authors, judged Memoirs of a Midget “a poet’s book. I can think of no prose book by an English poet which is a more substantial achievement.” The definitive de la Mare novel, Memoirs is a study of the social and spiritual outsider, a concern central to the author’s work.
For his extravagance of invention de la Mare is sometimes labeled an escapist who retreats from accepted definitions of reality and the relationships of conventional existence. His approach to reality, however, is not escapist; rather, it profoundly explores the world he considered most significant—that of the imagination. In the London Mercury J.B. Priestley favorably concluded in 1924 that de la Mare is “one of that most lovable order of artists who never lose sight of their childhood, but re-live it continually in their work and contrive to find expression for their maturity in it, memories and impressions, its romantic vision of the world.”( From poetryfoundation.org ) For Educational Purposes only.
He died on June 22, 1956.“Winter” By Walter de la Mare. Skylark in the blue sky with sunlit white clouds : : Plumage is plain or streaked (sexes usually alike) in a colour closely matching the soil. Body length is 13 to 23 cm (5 to 9 inches). Flocks of larks forage for insects and seeds on the ground. All species have high, thin, melodious voices; in courtship the male may sing in the sky or audibly clap his wings aloft.skylark, (Alauda arvensis), Species of Old World lark particularly noted for its rich, sustained song and for singing in the air.
AUTUMN (November) : : By Walter de la Mare , Kent, England : : : : There is a wind where the rose was, Cold rain where sweet grass was, And clouds like sheep Stream o’er the steep Grey skies where the lark was.
Nought warm where your hand was, Nought gold where your hair was, But phantom, forlorn, Beneath the thorn, Your ghost where your face was.
Cold wind where your voice was, Tears, tears where my heart was, And ever with me, Child, ever with me, Silence where hope was.
— Walter de la Mare
“Autumn ( November ) “A 15 lines November Poem By Walter de la Mare is About transient loss observed as absence subsequently remembered on its replacementin Natural World .Yet the same Autumnal November bestows a character ( here “Child” ) presented as a lost love bringing “Tears”. : :
Stanza 1 : : “There is a wind where the rose was, 1 Cold rain where sweet grass was,2 And clouds like sheep 3 Stream o’er the steep 4 Grey skies where the lark was.” 5 : : lines 1 To 5 : : : :
About Replacement in the Natural World. Rose is replaced with “wind”, and “sweet grass” with “Cold rain” in Autumn 🍂🍁 : In the same way ,Song bird “lark” is substituted by “Grey skies”With the onset of Autumn , we have to be content with “clouds like sheep” ; and have to stare at the “stream over the steep” ( place on a hill ) : : : :
Stanza 2 : : “Nought warm where your hand was, 6 Nought gold where your hair was, 7 But phantom, forlorn, 8 Beneath the thorn, 9 Your ghost where your face was.” 10 : : lines 6 To 10 : : : :
About substituted change in one’s human experience. And here the change is feelingas ‘ not anything , or nothing at all’ expressed in a word, ” Nought”: : This is because , the hand is “Nought warm”, the “hair appears as not (“Nought” ) “gold”. : : One s unprepared for ghostly appearing figure, that is “phantom forlorn”confronted as ‘hopeless’ and senseless as if unreal. The expectations built with a lovely “face”meet with complete failure. Here one faces a place “Beneath the thorn.”( line 9 ) : which is a prickly annoyance. : : : :
Stanza 3 : : “Cold wind where your voice was, 11 Tears, tears where my heart was, 12 And ever with me, 13 Child, ever with me, 14 Silence wherehope was.” 15 : : lines 11 To 15 : : : :
About a lost love of a “Child”bringing “tears”, The experience of loss here is highly personaland is unbearable. Moreover, it is irreplaceable , immensely valuable. No one and nothing can nix the features associated with “Child” : His / Her voice can not be substituted with “cold wind”. With such loss of love one’s ❤️ heart becomes filled with tears 💜 for ever. It is not possible to get it gained in any other replacement for it is beyond all the seasons of the years to come. When there is nothing to expect, nill to wish for and nothing to go for , All “hopes” existing with him / her get vanished as a result only one thing remains , that is the “Silence” : : : :
“Autumn ( November )” , By Walter de la Mare Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India May 21 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
The ten hours’ light is abating, And a late bird wings across, Where the pines, like waltzers waiting, Give their black heads a toss. 4 Beech leaves, that yellow the noontime, Float past like specks in the eye; I set every tree in my June time, And now they obscure the sky. 8 And the children who ramble through here Conceive that there never has been A time when no tall trees grew here, That none will in time be seen. 12 — Thomas Hardy
“At Day Close In November”, A November Poem By Thomas Hardy ( 1840 – 1928 ) is About pondering pessimistically about forgetfulnessand death. : : CLICK HERE In BELOW to enjoy the Song ” A Day Close In November ) By Thomas Hardy : Performed on November 29 , 2008 By Mark Wilde ( Tenor ) With Philip Sunderland ( Piano ) : From Original Song Composed by Benjamin Britton ( )
Notes for each of the 3 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India May 20 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
November : : By Thomas Hood : London, England : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :. No sun – no moon! 1 No morn – no noon – 2 No dawn – no dusk – no proper time of day.3 No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 4 No comfortable feel in any member – 5 No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 6 No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! – 7 November! 8
— Thomas Hood
“November “, An 8 lines short November Poem By Thomas Hood is About A time of winter fog, ice and snow calling it “November !”( last line 8 ) which is a longing for the seasonsto returnwith the amusing list stated in lines 1 To 7. : : One might see in to it A Time before the Global Warming! Or else, it may lead to the memories of some miserable days of November in one’s past. With some positive mind , someone may see in the Sun attempting to come out trying to break through and would flee from depression! The poem actually has several more verses, showing what the month was like in fog-filled London in the early Victorian period when he wrote it. It’s most quoted version is as above.
Thomas Hood known for two other poems, “The Song of the Shirt” and “I Remember, I Remember”, uses the first two letters of the month of November as a decisive leap to startle or taking a start for the stark barenessand absence which mark this cold, late autumnal November.
Robert Burns ( 1759 – 1796 ) Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images.Robert Burns
To a Mouse ( Original Scots ) Published date November, 1785 : : : : BY ROBERT BURNS On Turning her up in her Nest, with the Plough, November 1785.
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie, O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! Thou need na start awa sae hasty, Wi’ bickerin brattle! I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, An’ justifies that ill opinion, Which makes thee startle, At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, An’ fellow-mortal!
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! A daimen-icker in a thrave ’S a sma’ request: I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave, An’ never miss ’t!
Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin! It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin! An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, O’ foggage green! An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin, Baith snell an’ keen!
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, An’ weary Winter comin fast, An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter past Out thro’ thy cell.
That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble Has cost thee monie a weary nibble! Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble, But house or hald, To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble, An’ cranreuch cauld!
But Mousie, thou art no thy-lane, In proving foresight may be vain: The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley, An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain, For promis’d joy!
Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me! The present only toucheth thee: But Och! I backward cast my e’e, On prospects drear! An’ forward tho’ I canna see, I guess an’ fear!
English Translation From Original Scots : : : : Little, cunning, cowering, timorous beast, Oh, what a panic is in your breast! You need not start away so hasty With bickering prattle! I would be loath to run and chase you, With murdering paddle!
I’m truly sorry man’s dominion Has broken Nature’s social union, And justifies that ill opinion Which makes you startle At me, your poor, earth-born companion And fellow mortal!
I doubt not, sometimes, that you may thieve; What then? Poor beast, you must live! An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves Is a small request; I will get a blessing with what is left, And never miss it.
Your small house, too, in ruin! Its feeble walls the winds are scattering! And nothing now, to build a new one, Of coarse green foliage! And bleak December’s winds ensuing, Both bitter and piercing!
You saw the fields laid bare and empty, And weary winter coming fast, And cozy here, beneath the blast, You thought to dwell, Till crash! The cruel coulter passed Out through your cell.
That small heap of leaves and stubble, Has cost you many a weary nibble! Now you are turned out, for all your trouble, Without house or holding, To endure the winter’s sleety dribble, And hoar-frost cold.
But Mouse , you are not alone, In proving foresight may be vain: The best-laid schemes of mice and men Go oft awry, And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy!
Still you are blessed, compared with me! The present only touches you: But oh! I backward cast my eye, On prospects dreary! And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear!
“To a Mouse, on Turning Her Up in Her Nest With the Plough, November, 1785” A Scots-language poem written by Robert Burns in 1785 is About the idea that no matter how much people may plan, arrange, and carefully organize their lives, there is simply no guarantee that things won’t go terribly wrong or awry.. : : mouse nest It was included in the Kilmarnock volume and all of the poet’s later editions, such as the Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect (Edinburgh Edition). According to legend, Burns was ploughing in the fields at his Mossgiel Farm and accidentally destroyed a mouse’s nest, which it needed to survive the winter. In fact, Burns’s brother, Gilbert, claimed that the poet composed the poem while still holding his plough. It’s A Romantic Conversation Poem. A Guilt And A kind of apology to the mouse for his mishap, for the general tyranny of man in nature and reflects mournfully on the role of fate in the life of every creature, including himself..The poet Speaker expresses sorrow for the animal’s plight and vulnerability. The speaker addresses the mouse directly with a gentle reassurance , using the child-like diminutives beastie and breastie , while attempting to defuse its fears – O, whit a panic’s – and telling it directly it is in no danger. The main theme of Robert Burns’s To a Mouse poem is the futility of planning for a hopeful future in the face of unforeseen consequences. The Poet Speaker declares “thou art blest, compared wi’ me”. He is conscious of his own grim situation and, indeed, the precarious existence of mankind asa whole. Its Rhyme schemeis AAABAB . : :
Notes for each of the 8 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India May 18 , 2023 : : : : : : : : :
Shepherd’s Calendar – NovemberMisty November day in a public park. Bare tree branches over still water. Muted colors of autumn. Beautiful misty sunrise landscape. November foggy morning and rime on plants/ high grass meadow.
The Shepherds Calendar :November : : By John Clare : Northamptonshire / England : : ::
The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon; And, if the sun looks through, ’tis with a face Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon, When done the journey of her nightly race, Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place. For days the shepherds in the fields may be, Nor mark a patch of sky – blindfold they trace, The plains, that seem without a bush or tree, Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.
The timid hare seems half its fears to lose, Crouching and sleeping ‘neath its grassy lair, And scarcely startles, tho’ the shepherd goes Close by its home, and dogs are barking there; The wild colt only turns around to stare At passer by, then knaps his hide again; And moody crows beside the road forbear To fly, tho’ pelted by the passing swain; Thus day seems turn’d to night, and tries to wake in vain.
The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon, And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light; The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon, And small birds chirp and startle with affright; Much doth it scare the superstitious wight, Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay; While cow-boys think the day a dream of night, And oft grow fearful on their lonely way, Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.
Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings Its murky prison round – then winds wake loud; With sudden stir the startled forest sings Winter’s returning song – cloud races cloud, And the horizon throws away its shroud, Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye; Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd, And o’er the sameness of the purple sky Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.
At length it comes along the forest oaks, With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high; The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks, And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly, While the blue hawk hangs o’er them in the sky.- The hedger hastens from the storm begun, To seek a shelter that may keep him dry; And foresters low bent, the wind to shun, Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher’s muttering gun.
The ploughman hears its humming rage begin, And hies for shelter from his naked toil; Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin, He bends and scampers o’er the elting soil, While clouds above him in wild fury boil, And winds drive heavily the beating rain; He turns his back to catch his breath awhile, Then ekes his speed and faces it again, To seek the shepherd’s hut beside the rushy plain.
The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat The melancholy crow – in hurry weaves, Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat, Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves, Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves. There he doth dithering sit, and entertain His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves; Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta’en, And wishing in his heart ’twas summer-time again.
Thus wears the month along, in checker’d moods, Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms; One hour dies silent o’er the sleepy woods, The next wakes loud with unexpected storms; A dreary nakedness the field deforms – Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight, Lives in the village still about the farms, Where toil’s rude uproar hums from morn till night Noises, in which the ears of Industry delight.
At length the stir of rural labour’s still, And Industry her care awhile forgoes; When Winter comes in earnest to fulfil His yearly task, at bleak November’s close, And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows; When frost locks up the stream in chill delay, And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes, For little birds – then Toil hath time for play, And nought but threshers’ flails awake the dreary day.
— John Clare
“The Shepherds Calendar : November Poem By John Clare is About The dying Fall when, after a discussion of how the lighter songs of May are no longer appropriate, he has Colin sing a lament to the dead maiden Dido. : : About this November Poem, Billy Mills wrote in guardian Fri 2 Nov 2012 06.58 EDT , ” With its interweaving of the language and intellectual landscapes of the pastoral, amour courtois and Biblical traditions, November is one of the high points of the entireSpenseriancycle.”
Especially When The October Wind : Dylan Thomas Swansea / Wales : : : ; : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea’s side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water’s speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour’s word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock. Some let me make you of the meadow’s signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven’s sins.
Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make you of the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea’s side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
— Dylan Thomas
“Especially When The October Wind” : 1934 October Poem By DylanThomas is About Autumnal description , longing for a romantic and family life , experiencing the ticking of Time and making of poetic process. : : : :
Notes for each of the 4 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India May 16 , 2023 : : : : : : : :
MADHU MALTI 