Friday, November 18, 2011

Poetry Friday--"November"

Here's a little seasonal poem by William Dean Howells:

A weft of leafless spray
Woven fine against the gray
Of the autumnal day,
And blurred along those ghostly garden tops
Clusters of berries crimson as the drops
That my heart bleeds when I remember
How often, in how many a far November,
Of childhood and my children's childhood I was glad,
With the wild rapture of the Fall,
Of all the beauty, and of all
The ruin, now so intolerably sad.
Howells was born in Ohio in 1837, but as a young man he traveled to Massachusetts where he made the acquaintance of many New England writers such as Emerson and Thoreau. He was writer of novels, poetry, literary criticism, essays, and was an editor of The Atlantic Monthly.

Howells had a peripatetic life--traveling from place to place. He lived in England, Italy, New York, Maine, and Massachusetts. His final resting place is in Cambridge, MA, which I guess that makes him a New Englander by default, and, explains the melancholy tone of "November." New Englanders have a penchant for looking back to glad times.

Well, cheer up and head over to the Poetry Friday Round-Up, which is being hosted by Tabatha Yeatts.


Photo © Diane Mayr, all rights reserved.


I'm Jet . . . said...

"With the wild rapture of the Fall"

Love that line, and I really dig this poem, too.

Great choice for today, D!


Ruth said...

I've been reading lots of November poems lately, and I like this one.

Robyn Hood Black said...

Beautiful poem, though sad - I'll go read about the pigs again. ;0) Thanks for sharing!

teacherdance said...

How differently poets approach the month. Beautiful, but with that hint of tragedy.

Diane Mayr said...

November has always been a depressing time for me. I hate the long cold slide into winter.