November
by Hartley Coleridge
The mellow year is hastening to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast--
The shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed.
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows:
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine,
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define,
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine.
Hartley Coleridge was the eldest son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, author of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan
Poetry Friday is being hosted today by Yat-Yee Chong. Head on over and see what poems are being rounded up today!
2 comments:
Gaunt, sombre, oozy: the words show the poet not looking forward to winter. I have days that feel like this poem.
Me, too! Though right now I'm looking forward to the first snow, as are my children. I like visual poems, and I think Coleridge does an excellent job describing what November looks like around here in New England, and assumedly across the pond in England, as well. My favorite line: "The dusky waters shudder as they shine." Such an image!
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