#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/11/02 -- November Poems

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 1: November 2, 2022

 

A Garland of Poems for November

 

“November Morning”

By Evaleen Stein (1863-1923)

 

A tingling, misty marvel

  Blew hither in the night,

And now the little peach-trees

  Are clasped in frozen light.

 

Upon the apple-branches

  An icy film is caught,

With trailing threads of gossamer

  In pearly patterns wrought.

 

The autumn Sun, in wonder,

  Is gayly peering through

This silver-tissued network

  Across the frosty blue.

 

The weather-vane is fire-tipped,

  The honeysuckle shows

A dazzling icy splendor,

  And crystal is the rose.

 

Around the eaves are fringes

  Of icicles that seem

To mock the summer rainbows

  With many-colored gleam.

 

Along the walk, the pebbles

  Are each a precious stone;

The grass is tasseled hoarfrost,

  The clover jewel-sown.

 

Such sparkle, sparkle, sparkle

  Fills all the frosty air,

Oh, can it be that darkness

  Is ever anywhere!

 

 

 

“November Twilight”

By Bliss Carman (1861-1929)

 

Now Winter at the end of day

Along the ridges takes her way,

Upon her twilight round to light

The faithful candles of the night.

 

As quiet as the nun she goes

With silver lamp in hand, to close

The silent doors of dusk that keep

The hours of memory and sleep.

 

She pauses to tread out the fires

Where Autumn's festal train retires.

The last red embers smolder down

Behind the steeples of the town.

 

Austere and fine the trees stand bare

And moveless in the frosty air,

Against the pure and paling light

Before the threshold of the night.

 

On purple valley and dim wood

The timeless hush of solitude

Is laid, as if the time for some

Transcending mystery were come,

 

That shall illumine and console

The penitent and eager soul,

Setting her free to stand before

Supernal beauty and adore.

 

Dear Heart, in heaven's high portico

It is the hour of prayer. And lo,

Above the earth, serene and still,

One star —our star —o'er Lonetree Hill!

 

 

 

“November”

By Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

 

Besides the autumn poets sing,

A few prosaic days

A little this side of the snow

And that side of the haze.

 

A few incisive mornings,

A few ascetic eyes, —

Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,

And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.

 

Still is the bustle in the brook,

Sealed are the spicy valves;

Mesmeric fingers softly touch

The eyes of many elves.

 

Perhaps a squirrel may remain,

My sentiments to share.

Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,

Thy windy will to bear!

 

“November”

By Samuel Longfellow (1819-1892)

 

Summer is gone; but summer days return;

The winds and frosts have stripped the woodlands bare,

Save for some clinging foliage here and there;

Then as if, pitiful, her heart did yearn,

Nature, the loving mother, lifts her urn

And pours the stream of life to her spent child:

The desert air grows strangely soft and mild,

And in his veins the long-fled ardors burn.

 

So, when we pass the mid-years of our lives,

And, sad or glad, we feel our work nigh done,

There come to us with sudden, swift returns,

The glow, the thrill, which show that youth survives,

That — though through softening mists — still shines the Sun;

And in our souls the Indian summer burns.

 

“Get Up and Bar the Door”

(Traditional Scots-English Folk Ballad, 17^th Century)

 

It fell about the Martinmas time,

And a gay time it was then,

When our goodwife got puddings to make,

And she’s boild them in the pan.

 

The wind sae cauld blew south and north,

And blew into the floor;

Quoth our goodman to our goodwife,

“Gae out and bar the door.”

 

“My hand is in my hussyfskap,

Goodman, as ye may see;

An it shoud nae be barrd this hundred year,

It ’s no be barrd for me.”

 

They made a paction tween them twa,

They made it firm and sure,

That the first word whaeer shoud speak,

Shoud rise and bar the door.

 

Then by there came two gentlemen,

At twelve o clock at night,

And they could neither see house nor hall,

Nor coal nor candle-light.

 

“Now whether is this a rich man’s house,

Or whether is it a poor?”

But neer a word wad ane o them speak,

For barring of the door.

 

And first they ate the white puddings,

And then they ate the black;

Tho muckle thought the goodwife to hersel,

Yet neer a word she spake.

 

Then said the one unto the other,

“Here, man, tak ye my knife;

Do ye tak aff the auld man’s beard,

And I ’ll kiss the goodwife.”

 

“But there ’s nae water in the house,

And what shall we do than?”

What ails thee at the pudding-broo,

That boils into the pan?”

 

O up then started our goodman,

An angry man was he:

“Will ye kiss my wife before my een,

And scad me wi pudding-bree?”

 

Then up and started our goodwife,

Gied three skips on the floor:

“Goodman, you’ve spoken the foremost word,

Get up and bar the door.”

 

The flag of Scotland features a white, X-shaped St. Andrew’s Cross on a blue field. Scotland’s national holiday is St. Andrew’s Day on November 30. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)