November

The world is tired, the year is old,
The fading leaves are glad to die,
The wind goes shivering with cold
Where the brown reeds are dry.

Our love is dying like the grass,
And we who kissed grow coldly kind,
Half glad to see our old love pass
Like leaves along the wind.

Sara Teasdale

Sara Teasdale (August 8, 1884 – January 29, 1933) was an American lyric poet. She was born in St. Louis, Missouri and her first poem publication was in 1907. Teasdale's style was characterized by clarity and simplicity, often focusing on themes of love, nature, and death. She won the Columbia University Poetry Society Prize for her 1917 collection Love Songs. Unfortunately, she faced severe health issues and depression towards the end of her life, leading to her suicide in 1933.

Sara Teasdale

The Unchanging

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

The Voice

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

On A March Day

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

To E.

Sara Teasdale, Simple Poetry

English

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November

How like a hooded friar, bent and grey,
Whose pensive lips speak only when they pray
Doth sad November pass upon his way.

Through forest aisles while the wind chanteth low -
In God's cathedral where the great trees grow,
Now all day long he paceth to and fro.

When shadows gather and the night-mists rise,
Up to the hills he lifts his sombre eyes
To where the last red rose of sunset lies.

A little smile he weareth, wise and cold,
The smile of one to whom all things are old,
And life is weary, as a tale twice told.

"Come see," he seems to say - "where joy has fled -
The leaves that burned but yesterday so red
Have turned to ashes - and the flowers are dead.

"The summer's green and gold hath taken flight,
October days have gone. Now b...

Virna Sheard

Written In November.

Autumn, I love thy parting look to view
In cold November's day, so bleak and bare,
When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro',
With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare,
Thou, like an old man, bidd'st the world adieu.
I love thee well: and often, when a child,
Have roam'd the bare brown heath a flower to find;
And in the moss-clad vale, and wood-bank wild
Have cropt the little bell-flowers, pearly blue,
That trembling peep the shelt'ring bush behind.
When winnowing north-winds cold and bleaky blew,
How have I joy'd, with dithering hands, to find,
Each fading flower; and still how sweet the blast,
Would bleak November's hour restore the joy that's past.

John Clare

The Death Of The Flowers.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread.
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the...

William Cullen Bryant

November's Here.

Dullest month of all the year, -
Suicidal atmosphere,
Everything is dark and drear,
Filling nervous minds with fear,
Skies are seldom ever clear,
Fogs are ever hov'ring near, -
'Tis a heavy load to bear.

Were it not that life is dear,
We should wish to disappear,
For it puts us out of gear.

But in vain we shed the tear,
We must still cling to the rear
Of the year that now is near.

Though our eyes begin to blear,
With fogs thick enough to shear,
And we feel inclined to swear,
At the month that comes to smear
All things lovely, all things dear;
We must bear and yet forbear.

But some thoughts our spirits cheer,
Christmas time will soon be here,
Then at thee we'll scoff and jeer,
Smoke our pipes and drink our b...

John Hartley

November

But let all those that put their trust in thee rejoice. Psalm 5:11.


November is so drear and chill
Whilst making leafless branch and tree,
Whilst sweeping over vale and hill
With all her doleful minstrelsy.
November wails the summer's death
In such a melancholy voice,
She has a withering, blighting breath;
She does not bid the heart rejoice.

Yet why repine, thou stricken one?
Grief is the common fate of all.
This the refrain beneath the sun:
Mortals must die, and leaves must fall.
They'll live again, the leaves and flowers,
When spring returns to bless the earth;
They'll waken 'neath her sunny hours
Through nature's touch to beauteous birth.

Hope in decay and do not moan
That God has taken one we love:
Why should o...

Nancy Campbell Glass

May

The wind is tossing the lilacs,
The new leaves laugh in the sun,
And the petals fall on the orchard wall,
But for me the spring is done.

Beneath the apple blossoms
I go a wintry way,
For love that smiled in April
Is false to me in May.

Sara Teasdale