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As we’d expect from an imagist poem, ‘November’ is short, written in free verse, and offers a matter-of-fact depiction of the November landscape. A November Night And in our souls the Indian summer burns. Spring over the ground Like a hunting hound On this Thanksgiving Day, Hey! And straightway at her feet rise moaning winds, This poem by the poet best-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 jumping-off point for the bareness and absence which mark this cold, late autumn month. A few prosaic days And in his veins the long-fled ardors burn. Behind the steeples of the town. I would forget the perished leaves Luring and beckoning, on and on, The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house, Every holiday, including Thanksgiving, is a fun time to share holiday poems. The glow, the thrill, which show that youth survives, A. E. Housman, ‘The night is freezing fast’. I recognised it instantly from my youth when I fell in love with the music of The Art of Noise. Right near the end we'll find October November January February December Photos . It is the hour of prayer. Within the deep-blue eyes of Heaven a haze The dying fall of the cinquain is brilliantly capitalised on here with the use of the very word ‘fall’ in the final line to describe the falling leaves: ‘The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees / And fall.’. Interesting Literature is a participant in the Amazon EU Associates Programme, an affiliate advertising programme designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by linking to Amazon.co.uk. The birds have ceased their calling, Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod, O Shade-form, lovelier than the living crowd, The Month of November Poetry, Quotations, Sayings, Facts, Information, Quips, Aphorisms, Lore "Over the river and through the woods Trot fast my dapple gray. The winds and frosts have stripped the woodlands bare. Long have I listened to the wailing wind, Oh my goodness…you’ve just given me a magic moment with the Thomas Hood poem. When done the journey of her nightly race, A few ascetic eyes, — To-morrow comes December; Stories 25. Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico While the sweet last-left damsons from the bough Sorry, your blog cannot share posts by email. Not all good things together Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see …, Clare (1793-1864) is one of English literature’s greatest nature poets – indeed, according to some, the very best. Autumn moonlight by Matsuo Basho. And scraps of joy my wandering ever finds To one who watches over leagues of stone They promise—so do I—the hours Gray clad from foot to head; From dawn till night and from night till dawn. Proclaim the summer gone, the harvest past. Whether about animals, family life, or goofy people, they're all … The quail come back to the clover, In this November poem, Walter de la Mare (1873-1956) picks up on the theme of absence which Hood’s poem captured, but here there’s the added suggestion of a lost love. And let them toll—the summer fled, Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran, Unparadised, Earth seems to share his doom, Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss; Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled! Hardy (1840-1928) is one of English literature’s best-known pessimists, so it’s not exactly a surprise to find this poem ends up musing upon oblivion and death: ‘And the children who ramble through here / Conceive that there never has been / A time when no tall trees grew here, / A time when none will be seen.’ Beautifully put in Hardy’s straightforward, heartfelt but nevertheless tight-lipped style. And creeps the frost at night, To Autumn by William Blake. Now silent slips away as one who hears a foe behind, For that her fair queen-child the Summer bright, Thomas Hardy, ‘At Day-Close in November’. Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote this poem in 1820. Throbbing under the shrouding snow, Here, then, are some of the very best poems about the month of November. To sighing winds, are standing stark and gray; That sing a requiem for the summer, dead 2. On purple valley and dim wood Ode to the West Wind. And down the rocky leaf-strewn gorges play. Anonymous, ‘Merry it is while summer lasts’. November rain! I would forget so many things; Clothing the bare boughs in their winding sheet, Crapsey (1878-1914) is not much remembered now, but she left one important poetic legacy: the cinquain, or five-line unrhymed stanza form, modelled on the Japanese haiku. But when I see November come, Another, and the topmost branches bow Baith snell an’ keen …. While thick and fast the snowy pall is laid And thoughts are chill and brown. In honor of National Poetry Month, we present some of our favorite funny poems that are good for a laugh. Think how the roots of the roses Remembrance and regret. To sighing winds, are standing stark and gray; And down the rocky leaf-strewn gorges play. From dawn till night and from night till dawn. A few incisive mornings, The hoary forest, and doth rouse from sleep No distance looking blue -. A time for all to laugh and play; Nature, the loving mother, lifts her urn The sun hath shed its kindly light…. But winds foreboding fill the desolate night, One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. So drive the cold cows from the hill, A hearth and a home and the Heart's Desire. The changing beauty and wonderment But we shall keep on being merry; The low dull, hollow sound within the forest, Sharing Fun Thanksgiving Poems for Kids. While all the tiny folk that habit in the wood This time: November, the month of much darker evenings, colder nights, and barer trees – the last of which being something Thomas Hood’s poem, included below, captures very effectively. Fire and Ice by Robert Frost. November is Native American Heritage month, and a good time to honor the legacy of our ancestors, but every day we should stop to think about our country's beginning and that the United States would not exist if not for a great deal of sacrifice, blood, and tears by Indian Tribes across the country. Hurrah for the fun, Is the pudding done? – John Clare, ‘The Shepherd’s Calendar: November’. I listen to the wash of this dull sea. We still will find a cheerful mind The leafy tree that seems to stand aghast. And buried deep beneath the autumn leaves. And then, you see, I'm not all gray; Transcending mystery were come. Clear and sweet it peals and swells, The barn with warming din. 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