November by Charles L Cleaveland

by | Nov 4, 2025 | Male Poets, Nature Poems, November Poems, Poems, Poetry, Poets

When thistle-blows do lightly float
About the pasture-height,
And shrills the hawk a parting note,
And creeps the frost at night,
Then hilly ho! though singing so,
And whistle as I may,
There comes again the old heart pain
Through all the livelong day.

In high wind creaks the leafless tree
And nods the fading fern;
The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,
And cold the sun does burn.
Then ho, hollo! though calling so,
I can not keep it down;
The tears arise unto my eyes,
And thoughts are chill and brown.

Far in the cedars’ dusky stoles,
Where the sere ground-vine weaves,
The partridge drums funereal rolls
Above the fallen leaves.
And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,
It stills no whit the pain;
For drip, drip, drip, from bare branchtip,
I hear the year’s last rain.

So drive the cold cows from the hill,
And call the wet sheep in;
And let their stamping clatter fill
The barn with warming din.
And ho, folk, ho! though it is so
That we no more may roam,
We still will find a cheerful mind
Around the fire at home!

A November Night by Sara Teasdale

by | Nov 3, 2025 | Female Poets, Life Poems, November Poems, Poems, Poets

A November Night

There!  See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street —
Why can’t you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat?  I’d twist it round
And you could play with it.  You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live. . . .  And see,
The people on the street look up at us
All envious.  We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy. . . .
How still you are!  Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night?  It is so long
Since I have seen you — four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade.  The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay — and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them. . . .  There’s the Plaza now,
A lake of light!  To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you.  See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds. . . .  Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park.  It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, “Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here!  Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!” . . .  Look at the lake —
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think.  But now
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little.  How I long to take
One from the cold black water — new-made gold
To give you in your hand!  And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl — if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me. . . .

There was a new frail yellow moon to-night —
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim. . . .

How cold it is!  Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow. . . .  What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem — but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far. . . .
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone —
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it!  Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone.  We two alone!

November By Emily Dickinson

by | Nov 3, 2025 | Emily Dickinson, Female Poets, Life Poems, Nature Poems, November Poems, Poems, Poets

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!

It is November by Elizabeth Shield

It is November by Elizabeth Shield

by | Nov 19, 2024 | Autumn Poems, Life Poems, Nature Poems, November Poems, Poems, Poetry

It Is November

It is November
And all the leaves face my way
Overlapping tussocks of grass
Like long forgotten hills
Dwelling in the overhang of fall

It is November
Orange ribbons hand in tatters
Patched up yellow cloaks are draped
And whisking in the wind
Then drifting to the earth
And becoming winters pillow

It is November
And there stands a lonely tower
Base adorned with red bushes
Flags no longer flying
Crouched and crippled by the frost

It is November
My feet bear down on acorns
A thousand fold
All left and forgotten
Even to the squirrels
Just a layer ‘neath my feet

It is November
The solitary pines stand solid
Near the ivy covered wall
Their boughs raise and hail the heavens
And their needles fall
As the autumn wind dances a mournful dance

It is November
Bare branches rake the cloudy skies
And scratch out their heartfelt pleas
Against cold glass windows
Seeking what they have lost and will not find

It is November
An old gate stands ajar
Beckoning to no one
Standing solidly open
Despite the cruel fall wind

It is November
Trees make colored circles
A fading gold on fading green
A fireworks display
Now falling to the ground

It is November
Cold air fills my body
Cruel wind tosses my hair
I seek a shelter from autumn
My door is open
Now I am home

Elizabeth Shield