November is such a maligned month isn't it? The bringer of dark and cold. As Longfellow says of it here, 'I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.' This is a feeling that is reflected in a lot of poems about November which I will be sharing here this month. But, some of them shimmer with a little of the month's magic too: starry nights, bright moons, first snows. Stay tuned for a seasonal synopsis.
November (from The Poet's Calendar) - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The Centaur, Sagittarius, am I,
Born of Ixion's and the cloud's embrace;
With sounding hoofs across the earth I fly,
A steed Thessalian with a human face.
Sharp winds the arrows are with which I chase
The leaves, half dead already with affright;
I shroud myself in gloom; and to the race
Of mortals bring nor comfort nor delight.