seasonal verse

[Apple Bobber]

The Burning of the Leaves
 
Now is the time for the burning of the leaves,
They go to the fire; the nostrils prick with smoke
Wandering slowly into the weeping mist.
Brittle and blotched, ragged and rotten sheaves!
A flame seizes the smouldering ruin, and bites
On stubborn stalks that crackle as they resist.
The last hollyhock’s fallen tower is dust:
All the spices of June are a bitter reek,
All the extravagant riches spent and mean.
All burns! the reddest rose is a ghost.
Spark whirl up, to expire in the mist: the wild
Fingers of fire are making corruption clean.
Now is the time for stripping the spirit bare,
Time for the burning of days ended and done,
Idle solace of things that have gone before,
Rootless hope and fruitless desire are there:
Let them go to the fire with never a look behind.
That world that was ours is a world that is ours no more.
They will come again, the leaf and the flower, to arise
From squalor of rottenness into the old splendour,
And magical scents to a wondering memory bring;
The same glory, to shine upon different eyes.
Earth cares for her own ruins, naught for ours.
Nothing is certain, only the certain spring.

Laurence Binyon

[Daz Madrigal]

To Autumn by William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

[Trick or Treat]

November

(Thomas Hood)


No sun - no moon!
No morn - no noon -
No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member -
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! -

November!

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Best said in a gritty Glasgow accent.

I prefer the Blake meself. Hee hee nice smiley.

[Daz Madrigal]

No I like that

[purple joggers]

The (well-known) Thomas Hood poem is terrible and ought to be banned for giving a false impression of life and the seasons!

November isn't that bad at all - there are still leaves on the the trees, it's not that cold, the winter crops sprout. If you go walking in the countryside after fields have been turned, the soil smells wonderful, a cross between potatoes and chocolate.

The worst time of the year is mid-January to mid-February, so dark and cold.

[Daz Madrigal]

But it wouldn't rhyme - no?

[Daz Madrigal]

Its William Bryants birthday today - 300yrs old.

November

Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
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.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

[mimi]

At this precise point in the time frame it is snowing a blizzard here in dear old Vienna.

[chavette]

madrigalman said:

Its William Bryants birthday today - 300yrs old.

Aren't old people amazing! Is he still writing poems? Ahhh, bless.

[sandywinder]

In Novembers of old

The days were cold

And the knights were armour-plated

It was a hard thing to do

To go to the loo

So they got very constipated.


'Sandy Winder - 1972'.

[Daz Madrigal]

I thought it might be one of yours after the first two lines, Sandy. Hardly Robert Browning but it'll do.