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Sunday, November 27, 2022

Dead Leaves / E. Nesbit


Dead Leaves

Not Summer's crown of scent the red rose weaves,
    Not hawthorn perfume blown o'er bloom-strewn grass,
    Not violets' whispers as the children pass,
Nor new-mown hay, crisp scent of yellow sheaves,
Nor lilac perfume in the soft May eves,
    Nor any scent that Springtime can amass,
    Or Summer squander, such a magic has
As scent of fresh wet earth and fallen leaves.

For sometimes lovers, in November days,
    When earth is grieving for the vanished sun,
Have trod dead leaves in chill and wintry ways,
    And kissed and dreamed eternal summer won.
Look back, look back! through memory's deepening haze,
    See — two who dreamed that dream, and you were one!

~~
E. Nesbit (1858-1924)
from Leaves of Life, 1888

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

E. Nesbit biography

Saturday, November 26, 2022

November Evening / Lucy Maud Montgomery


November Evening

Come, for the dusk is our own; let us fare forth together,
With a quiet delight in our hearts for the ripe, still, autumn weather,
Through the rustling valley and wood and over the crisping meadow,
Under a high-sprung sky, winnowed of mist and shadow.

Sharp is the frosty air, and through the far hill-gaps showing
Lucent sunset lakes of crocus and green are glowing;
'Tis the hour to walk at will in a wayward, unfettered roaming,
Caring for naught save the charm, elusive and swift, of the gloaming.

Watchful and stirless the fields as if not unkindly holding
Harvested joys in their clasp, and to their broad bosoms folding
Baby hopes of a Spring, trusted to motherly keeping,
Thus to be cherished and happed through the long months of their sleeping.

Silent the woods are and gray; but the firs than ever are greener,
Nipped by the frost till the tang of their loosened balsam is keener;
And one little wind in their boughs, eerily swaying and swinging,
Very soft and low, like a wandering minstrel is singing.

Beautiful is the year, but not as the springlike maiden
Garlanded with her hopes–rather the woman laden
With wealth of joy and grief, worthily won through living,
Wearing her sorrow now like a garment of praise and thanksgiving.

Gently the dark comes down over the wild, fair places,
The whispering glens in the hills, the open, starry spaces;
Rich with the gifts of the night, sated with questing and dreaming,
We turn to the dearest of paths where the star of the homelight is gleaming.

~~
Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)
from The Watchman, and other poems, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Lucy Maud Montgomery biography

Karl and Ali, November Evening, River Kent off Ash Meadow, 2011. CC BY-SA 2.0, Wikimedia Commons

Sunday, November 20, 2022

November / Amy Lowell


November

The vine leaves against the brick walls of my house
Are rusty and broken.
Dead leaves gather under the pine-trees,
The brittle boughs of lilac-bushes
Sweep against the stars.
And I sit under a lamp
Trying to write down the emptiness of my heart.
Even the cat will not stay with me,
But prefers the rain
Under the meagre shelter of a cellar window.

~~
Amy Lowell
from 
Pictures of the Floating World, 1919

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Amy Lowell biography

DV, Rain outside Window, 2011. CC BY-SA 3.0Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, November 19, 2022

November Rain / Ellen P. Allerton


November Rain

November rain! November rain!
Fitfully beating the window pane:
Creeping in pools across the street;
Clinging in slush to dainty feet;
Shrouding in black the sun at noon;
Wrapping a pall about the moon.

Out in the darkness, sobbing, sighing,
Yonder, where the dead are lying,
Over mounds with headstones gray,
And new ones made but yesterday —
Weeps the rain above the mould,
Weeps the night-rain, sad and cold.

The low wind wails—a voice of pain.
Fit to chime with the weeping rain.
Dirge-like, solemn, it sinks and swells,
Till I start and listen for tolling bells,
And let them toll — the summer fled,
Wild winds and rain bewail the dead.

And yet not dead. A prophesy
Over wintry wastes comes down to me,
Strong, exultant, floating down
Over frozen fields and forests brown,
Clear and sweet it peals and swells,
Like New Year chimes from midnight bells.

It tells of a heart with life aglow,
Throbbing under the shrouding snow,
Beating, beating with pulses warm,
While roars above it the gusty storm.
Asleep — not dead — your grief is vain,
Wild, wailing winds, November rain.

~~
Ellen P. Allerton (1835-1893)
from 
Annabel, and other poems, 1885

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide
]

Sunday, November 13, 2022

The Call / Jessie Pope


The Call

Who's for the trench –
        Are you, my laddie?
Who'll follow the French –
        Will you, my laddie ?
Who's fretting to begin,
Who's going out to win?
And who wants to save his skin –
        Do you, my laddie?

Who's for the khaki suit –
        Are you, my laddie?
Who longs to charge and shoot –
        Do you, my laddie?
Who's keen on getting fit,
Who means to show his grit,
And who'd rather wait a bit –
        Would you, my laddie?

Who'll earn the Empire's thanks –
        Will you, my laddie?
Who'll swell the victor's ranks –
        Will you, my laddie?
When that procession comes,
Banners and rolling drums –
Who'll stand and bite his thumbs? –
        Will you, my laddie?

~~
Jessie Pope (1868-1941)
from
Jessie Pope's War Poems, 1915

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Saturday, November 12, 2022

Men Who March Away / Thomas Hardy


Men Who March Away

(Song of the Soldiers)

What of the faith and fire within us
        Men who march away
        Ere the barn-cocks say
        Night is growing gray,
Leaving all that here can win us;
What of the faith and fire within us
        Men who march away?

Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
        Friend with the musing eye,
        Who watch us stepping by
        With doubt and dolorous sigh?
Can much pondering so hoodwink you!
Is it a purblind prank, O think you,
        Friend with the musing eye?

Nay. We well see what we are doing,
        Though some may not see —
        Dalliers as they be —
        England's need are we;
Her distress would leave us rueing:
Nay. We well see what we are doing,
        Though some may not see!

In our heart of hearts believing
        Victory crowns the just,
        And that braggarts must
        Surely bite the dust,
Press we to the field ungrieving,
In our heart of hearts believing
        Victory crowns the just.

Hence the faith and fire within us
        Men who march away
        Ere the barn-cocks say
        Night is growing gray,
Leaving all that here can win us;
Hence the faith and fire within us
        Men who march away.

~~
Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
from Selected Poems, 1916

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]


Sunday, November 6, 2022

November / Edmund Spenser (1)

from The Shepheardes Calender1579:

November. Ægloga Undecima

ARGUMENT. In this xi. Æglogue he bewayleth the death of some mayden of greate bloud, whom he calleth Dido. The personage is secrete, and to me altogether unknowne, albe of him selfe I often required the same. This Æglogue is made in imitation of Marot his song, which he made upon the death of Loys the Frenche Queene: but farre passing his reache, and in myne opinion all other the Eglogues of this booke. 


THENOT.      COLIN. 

The. Colin, my deare, when shall it please thee sing,
As thou were wont, songs of some jouisaunce?
Thy Muse to long slombreth in sorrowing,
Lulled a sleepe through loves misgovernaunce:
Now somewhat sing whose endles sovenaunce
Emong the shepeheards swaines may aye remaine,
Whether thee list thy loved lasse advaunce,
Or honor Pan with hymnes of higher vaine.

    Col. Thenot, now nis the time of merimake,
Nor Pan to herye, nor with love to playe:
Sike myrth in May is meetest for to make,
Or summer shade, under the cocked haye.
But nowe sadde winter welked hath the day,
And Phæbus, weary of his yerely taske,
Ystabled hath his steedes in lowlye laye,
And taken up his ynne in Fishes haske.
Thilke sollein season sadder plight doth aske,
And loatheth sike delightes as thou doest prayse:
The mornefull Muse in myrth now list ne maske,
As shee was wont in youngth and sommer dayes.
But if thou algate lust light virelayes,
And looser songs of love, to underfong,
Who but thy selfe deserves sike Poetes prayse?
Relieve thy oaten pypes that sleepen long.

    The. The nightingale is sovereigne of song,
Before him sits the titmose silent bee:
And I, unfitte to thrust in skilfull thronge,
Should Colin make judge of my fooleree.
Nay, better learne of hem that learned bee.
And han be watered at the Muses well:
The kindlye dewe drops from the higher tree,
And wets the little plants that lowly dwell.
But if sadde winters wrathe, and season chill,
Accorde not with thy Muses meriment,
To sadder times thou mayst attune thy quill,
And sing of sorrowe and deathes dreeriment:
For deade is Dido, dead, alas! and drent,
Dido, the greate shepehearde his daughter sheene:
The fayrest may she was that ever went,
Her like shee has not left behinde I weene.
And if thou wilt bewayle my wofull tene,
I shall thee give yond cosset for thy payne:
And if thy rymes as rownd and rufull bene
As those that did thy Rosalind complayne,
Much greater gyfts for guerdon thou shalt gayne
Then kidde or cosset, which I thee bynempt.
Then up, I say, thou jolly shepeheard swayne,
Let not my small demaund be so contempt.

[continued in part 2 . . .]

Saturday, November 5, 2022

November / Edmund Spenser (2)

from The Shepheardes Calender, 1579:

November  [. . . continued from part 1]

    [Colin] Thenot, to that I choose thou doest me tempt:
But ah! to well I wote my humble vaine,
And howe my rymes bene rugged and unkempt:
Yet, as I conne, my conning I will strayne.
 
Up, then, Melpomene, thou mournefulst Muse of nyne!
Such cause of mourning never hadst afore:
Up, grieslie ghostes! and up my rufull ryme!
Matter of myrth now shalt thou have no more:
For dead shee is that myrth thee made of yore.
    Dido, my deare, alas! is dead,
    Dead, and lyeth wrapt in lead:
    O heavie herse!
Let streaming teares be poured out in store:
    O carefull verse!

Shepheards, that by your flocks on Kentish downes abyde,
Waile ye this wofull waste of Natures warke:
Waile we the wight whose presence was our pryde:
Waile we the wight whose absence is our carke.
The sonne of all the world is dimme and darke:
    The earth now lacks her wonted light,
    And all we dwell in deadly night:
    O heavie herse!
Breake we our pypes, that shrild as lowde as larke:
    O carefull verse!

Why doe we longer live, (ah, why live we so long?)
Whose better dayes death hath shut up in woe?
The fayrest floure our gyrlond all emong
Is faded quite, and into dust ygoe.
Sing now, ye shepheards daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made in her prayse,
But into weeping turne your wanton layes:
    O heavie herse!
Now is time to die. Nay, time was long ygoe:
    O carefull verse!

Whence is it that the flouret of the field doth fade,
And lyeth buryed long in winters bale:
Yet soone as spring his mantle doth displaye,
It floureth fresh, as it should never fayle?
But thing on earth that is of most availe,
    As vertues braunch and beauties budde,
    Reliven not for any good.
    O heavie herse!
The braunch once dead, the budde eke needes must quaile:
    O carefull verse!

She, while she was, (that was, a woful word to sayne!)
For beauties prayse and plesaunce had no pere:
So well she couth the shepherds entertayne
With cakes and cracknells and such country chere.
Ne would she scorne the simple shepheards swaine,
    For she would cal hem often heame,
    And give hem curds and clouted creame.
    O heavie herse!
Als Colin Cloute she would not once dis-dayne.
    O carefull verse!

But nowe sike happy cheere is turnd to heavie chaunce,
Such pleasaunce now displast by dolors dint:
All musick sleepes where Death doth leade the daunce,
And shepherds wonted solace is extinct.
The blew in black, the greene in gray, is tinct;
    The gaudie girlonds deck her grave,
    The faded flowres her corse embrave.
    O heavie herse!
Morne nowe, my Muse, now morne with teares besprint.
    O carefull verse!

O thou greate shepheard, Lobbin, how great is thy griefe!
Where bene the nosegayes that she dight for thee?
The colourd chaplets, wrought with a chiefe,
The knotted rushringes, and gilte rosemaree?
For shee deemed nothing too deere for thee.
    Ah! they bene all yelad in clay,
    One bitter blast blewe all away.
    O heavie herse!
There of nought remaynes but the memoree.
    O carefull verse!

Ay me! that dreerie Death should strike so mortall stroke,
That can undoe Dame Natures kindly course:
The faded lockes fall from the loftie oke,
The flouds do gaspe, for dryed is theyr sourse,
And flouds of teares flowe in theyr stead perforse.
    The mantled medowes mourne,
    Theyr sondry colours tourne.
    O heavie herse!
The heavens doe melt in teares without remorse.
    O carefull verse!

The feeble flocks in field refuse their former foode,
And hang theyr heads, as they would learne to weepe:
The beastes in forest wayle as they were woode,
Except the wolves, that chase the wandring sheepe,
Now she is gon that safely did hem keepe.
    The turtle, on the bared braunch,
    Laments the wound that Death did launch.
    O heavie herse!
And Philomele her song with teares doth steepe.
    O carefull verse!

The water nymphs, that wont with her to sing and daunce,
And for her girlond olive braunches beare,
Now balefull boughes of cypres doen advaunce:
The Muses, that were wont greene bayes to weare,
Now bringen bitter eldre braunches seare:
    The Fatall Sisters eke repent
    Her vitall threde so soone was spent.
    O heavie herse!
Morne now, my Muse, now morne with heavie cheare.
    O carefull verse!

O trustlesse state of earthly things, and slipper hope
Of mortal men, that swincke and sweate for nought,
And shooting wide, doe misse the marked scope:
Now have I learnd, (a lesson derely bought)
That nys on earth assuraunce to be sought:
    For what might be in earthlie mould,
    That did her buried body hould.
    O heavie herse!
Yet saw I on the beare when it was brought.
    O carefull verse!

But maugre Death, and dreaded sisters deadly spight,
And gates of Hel, and fyrie furies forse,
She hath the bonds broke of eternall night,
Her soule unbodied of the burdenous corpse.
Why then weepes Lobbin so without remorse?
    O Lobb! thy losse no longer lament;
    Dido nis dead, but into heaven hent.
    O happye herse!
Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrowes sourse:
    O joyfull verse!

Why wayle we then? why weary we the gods with playnts,
As if some evill were to her betight?
She raignes a goddesse now emong the saintes,
That whilome was the saynt of shepheards light:
And is enstalled nowe in heavens hight.
    I see thee, blessed soule, I see,
    Walke in Elisian fieldes so free.
    O happy herse!
Might I one come to thee! O that I might!
    O joyfull verse!

Unwise and wretched men, to weete whats good or ill,
Wee deeme of death as doome of ill desert:
But knewe we, fooles, what it us bringes until,
Dye would we dayly, once it to expert.
No daunger there the shepheard can astert:
    Fayre fieldes and pleasaunt layes there bene,
    The fieldes ay fresh, the grasse ay greene:
    O happy herse!
Make hast, ye shepheards, thether to revert:
    O joyfull verse!

Dido is gone afore (whose turne shall be the next?)
There lives shee with the blessed gods in blisse,
There drincks she nectar with ambrosia mixt,
And joyes enjoyes that mortall men doe misse.
The honor now of highest gods she is,
    That whilome was poore shepheards pryde,
    While here on earth she did abyde.
    O happy herse!
Ceasse now, my song, my woe now wasted is.
    O joyfull verse!
  
    [Thenot] Ay, francke shepheard, how bene thy verses meint
With doolful pleasaunce, so as I ne wotte
Whether rejoyce or weepe for great constrainte!
Thyne be the cossette, well hast thow it gotte.
Up, Colin, up, ynough thou morned hast:
Now gynnes to mizzle, hye we homeward fast.

~~
Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)
from Complete Poetical Works, 1908

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

November's featured poem

  

The Penny Blog's featured poem for November 2022:

No!, by Thomas Hood

[...]
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,
No comfortable feel in any member —
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flow'rs, no leaves, no birds, —
November!

https://gdancesbetty.blogspot.com/2010/11/no-thomas-hood.html

Tuesday, November 1, 2022

Penny's Top 20 / October 2022

                   

Penny's Top 20

The most-visited poems on  The Penny Blog in October 2022:

  1.  Esthetique du Mal, Wallace Stevens
  2.  October, Patrick Kavanagh
  3.  East Coker (V), T.S. Eliot
  4.  Demons, George J. Dance
  5.  Skating, William Wordsworth
  6.  October Afternoon in Bad Kreuth in Bavaria, Mary Devenport O'Neill
  7.  October's gold is dim, David Gray
  8.  August in the City, Charles Hanson Towne
  9.  Late October, Sylvester Baxter
10.  October's Bright Blue Weather, Helen Hunt Jackson

11.  An October Afternoon, Rachel Annand Taylor
12.  October, Rebecca Hey
13.  Penny, or Penny's Hat, George J. Dance
14.  To October, William Curtis
15.  Haunted Houses, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
16.  October, Edmund Spenser
17.  Envoy, Ernest Dowson
18.  Barley Feed, AE Reiff
19.  Moonlight Alert, Yvor Winters
20. October's Party, George Cooper

Source: Blogger, "Stats"