MADHU MALTI

There’s Nothing Like the Sun : Edward Thomas : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

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 now 7
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. 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
— Edward Thomas

“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 of November. : :

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 mere singing 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 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 : :

: :

“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 : : : : : : : :

November : Amy Lowell : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

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 Poem By An American Poet 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 manner thereafter. 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 and generosity.

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 insufficient or “meagre” shelter of “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’s An artisanal Amygism..

“November”, An American Imaginist Poem By Amy Lowell Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India May 22 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

Autumn (November) : Walter de la Mare : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

**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.**

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 replacement in 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 feeling as ‘ 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 where hope was.” 15 : : lines 11 To 15 : : : :

About a lost love of a “Child”bringing “tears”, The experience of loss here is highly personal and 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 : : : : : : : :

At Day-Close in November : Thomas Hardy : ( 1 ) : : Mark Wilde ( Tenor ) & Philip Sunderland ( Piano ) ( November 29 , 2008 ) : ( 2 ) from Winter Words Composed by Benjamin Britton : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

At day-close in November
By Thomas Hardy : : : :

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 forgetfulness and 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 ( )

https://youtu.be/yJIOaEn9iu4

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 : Thomas Hood : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

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 seasons to return with 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 bareness and absence which mark this cold, late autumnal November.

To a Mouse : Robert Burns : : November Poems : : Months Poems : :

**Robert Burns ( 1759 – 1796 ) Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images**.

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 as a whole. Its Rhyme scheme is 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 : : : : : : : : :

The Shepherd’s Calendar: November : John Clare : : November Poems : : Months Poems: :

**Misty 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 entire Spenserian cycle.”

Especially When The October Wind : Dylan Thomas Swansea / Wales : : October Poems : : Months Poems : :

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 Dylan Thomas 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 : : : : : : : :

The Shepheardes Calender : October : Edmund Spenser : : October Poems : : Months Poems : :

**October : Ægloga decima.**

**A R G V M E N T.**

The Shepheardes Calender: October
Note on this Renascence Editions text:

This edition is copyright © The University of Oregon; it is distributed for scholarly and nonprofit purposes only. Risa S. Bea : From luminariun.org for Educational Purposes only.

October.
[Woodcut for October]

Ægloga decima.

A R G V M E N T.

IN Cuddie is set out the perfecte paterne of a Poete, whishe finding no maintenaunce of his state and studies, complayneth of the contempte of Poetrie, and the causes thereof: Specially hauing bene in all ages, and euen amongst the most barbarous alwayes of singular accounpt & honor, & being indeede so worthy and commendable an arte: or rather no arte, but a diuine gift and heauenly instinct not to bee gotten by laboure and learning, but adorned with both: and poured into the witte by a certaine [enthusiasmos], and celestiall inspiration, as the Author hereof els where at large discourseth, in his booke called the English Poete, which booke being lately come to my hands, I mynde also by Gods grace vpon further aduisement to publish.
Pierce. Cuddie.
CVddie, for shame hold vp thy heauye head,
And let vs cast with what delight to chace:
And weary thys long lingring Phoebus race.
Whilome thou wont the shepheards laddes to leade,
In rymes, in ridles, and in bydding base:
Now they in thee, and thou in sleepe art dead?

Cuddye.
Piers, I haue pyped erst so long with payne,
That all mine Oten reedes bene rent and wore:
And my poore Muse hath spent her spared store,
Yet little good hath got, and much lesse gayne.
Such pleasaunce makes the Grashopper so poore,
And ligge so layd, when Winter doth her straine.
The dapper ditties, that I wont deuise,
To feede youthes fancie, and the flocking fry,
Delighten much: what I the bett for thy?
They han the pleasure, I a sclender prise.
I beate the bush, the byrds to them doe flye:
What good thereof to Cuddie can arise?

Piers.
Cuddie, the prayse is better, then the price,
The glory eke much greater then the gayne:
O what an honour is it, to restraine
The lust of lawlesse youth with good aduice:
Or pricke them forth with pleasaunce of thy vaine,
Whereto thou list their trayned willes entice.
Soone as thou gynst to sette thy notes in frame,
O how the rurall routes to thee doe cleaue:
Seemeth thou dost their soule of sence bereaue,
All as the shepheard, that did fetch his dame
From Plutoes balefull bowre withouten leaue:
His musicks might the hellish hound did tame.

Cuddie.
So praysen babes the Peacoks spotted traine,
And wondren at bright Argus blazing eye:
But who rewards him ere the more for thy?
Or feedes him once the fuller by a graine?
Sike prayse is smoke, that sheddeth in the skye,
Sike words bene wynd, and wasten soone in vayne.

Piers.
Abandon then the base and viler clowne,
Lyft vp thy selfe out of the lowly dust:
And sing of bloody Mars, of wars, of giusts,
Turne thee to those, that weld the awful crowne.
To doubted Knights, whose woundlesse armour rusts,
And helmes vnbruzed wexen dayly browne.
There may thy Muse display her fluttryng wing,
And stretch her selfe at large from East to West:
Whither thou list in fayre Elisa rest,
Or if thee please in bigger notes to sing,
Advaunce the worthy whome she loueth best,
That first the white bear to the stake did bring.

And when the stubborne stroke of stronger stounds,
Has somewhat slackt the tenor of thy string:
Of loue and lustihead tho mayst thou sing,
And carrol lowde, and leade the Myllers rownde,
All were Elisa one of thilke same ring.
So mought our Cuddies name to Heauen sownde.

Cuddie.
Indeede the Romish Tityrus, I heare,
Through his Mecænas left his Oaten reede,
Whereon he earst had taught his flocks to feede,
And laboured lands to yield the timely eare,
And eft did sing of warres and deadly drede,
So as the heauens did quake his verse to here.
But ah Mecænas is yclad in claye,
And great Augustus long ygoe is dead:
And all the worthies liggen wrapt in leade,
That matter made for Poets on to play:
For euer, who in derring doe were dreade,
The loftie verse of hem was loued aye.

But after vertue gan for age to stoupe,
And mighty manhode brought a bedde of ease:
The vaunting Poets found nought worth a pease,
To put in preace emong the learned troupe.
Tho gan the streames of flowing wittes to cease,
And sonnebright honour pend in shamefull coupe.

And if that any buddes of Poesie,
Yet of the old stocke gan to shoote agayne:
Or it mens follies mote be forst to fayne,
And rolle with rest in rymes of rybaudrye.
Or as it sprong, it wither must agayne:
Tom Piper makes vs better melodie.

Piers.
O pierlesse Poesye, where is then thy place?
If nor in Princes pallace thou doe sitt:
(And yet is Princes pallace the most fitt)
Ne brest of baser birth doth thee embrace.
Then make thee winges of thine aspyring wit,
And, whence thou camst, flye backe to heauen apace.

Cuddie.
Ah Percy it is all to weake and wanne,
So high to sore, and make so large a flight:
Her peeced pyneons bene not so in plight,
For Colin fittes such famous flight to scanne:
He, were he not with loue so ill bedight,
Would mount as high, and sing as soote as Swanne.

Piers.
Ah fon, for loue does teach him climbe so hie,
And lyftes him vp out of the loathsome myre:
Such immortall mirrhor, as he doth admire,
Would rayse ones mynd aboue the starry skie.
And cause a caytiue corage to aspire,
For lofty loue doth loath a lowly eye.

Cuddie.
All otherwise the state of Poet stands,
For lordly loue is such a Tyranne fell:
That where he rules, all power he doth expell.
The vaunted verse a vacant head demaundes,
Ne wont with crabbed care the Muses dwell:
Vnwisely weaues, that takes two webbes in hand.
Who euer casts to compasse weightye prise,
And thinks to throwe out thondring words of threate:
Let powre in lauish cups and thriftie bitts of meate,
For Bacchus fruite is frend to Phoebus wise.
And when with Wine the braine begins to sweate,
The nombers flowe as fast as spring doth ryse.

Thou kenst not Percie howe the ryme should rage.
O if my temples were distaind with wine,
And girt in girlonds of wild Yuie twine,
How I could reare the Muse on stately stage,
And teache her tread aloft in buskin fine,
With queintBellona in her equipage.

But ah my corage cooles ere it be warme,
For thy, content vs in thys humble shade:
Where no such troublous tydes han vs assayde,
Here we our slender pipes may safely charme.

Piers.
And when my Gates shall han their bellies layd:
Cuddie shall haue a Kidde to store his farme.

Cuddies Embleme.
Agitante calescimus illo &c.

In The Shepheardes Calender: October, By Edmund Spenser, “through the character of the pastoral piper Cuddie, sings a theme that may be near to many of our hearts, the neglect of poetry and the poverty of poets, who “little good hath got, and much lesse gayne” on account of their art. Piers, his audience of one, tries to console him with the thoughts of the praise he will receive for his singing, but Cuddie points out that you can’t eat praise. In the coda, the poet is promised a gift of a kid from one of Piers’s goats, which is, I suppose, a happy ending.” ( Billy Mills : From theguardian.com , Fri 5 Oct 2012 08.51 EDT ) : : : :

October : Louise Glück : : October Poems : : Months Poems : :

Louise Glück : The author of numerous collections of poetry, Louise Glück is the recipient of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature, served as a Chancellor for the Academy of American Poets, and twas the Library of Congress’s poet laureate consultant in poetry.

October (section I)
Louise Glück – 1943-

Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted

didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters

wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe

didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury

terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted—

I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall

I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground

I no longer care
what sound it makes

when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound

what it sounds like can’t change what it is—

didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted

didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,

the vines, were they harvested?
— Louise Glück : Section I from October by Louise Glück, published by Sarabande Books, Inc. 2004 : : From poets.org : For Educational Purposes only.

“October” by American Poet and Nobel Laureate Louise Glück muses on the natural change in October and the poet’s personal thoughts about autumn. It is a free verse poem written in the format of question and answer.Season brings a change in Nature. The poet thinks it to be the winter again. To verify the seasonal change she looks around her and starts to question herself. While describing the natural change, she also talks about the painful distinct events of her past. In autumn, nature return to life and new energy; same way she herself from the cold grips of winter. Like nature, she also feels the change in herself. The vines in the back garden especially catch the poet’s attention. The vine has climbed the “south wall” without anyone’s help. The poet implicitly compares herself with the vine. It seems that she has also grown strong like the vine without anyone’s help.

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 14 , 2023 : : : : : : : :