Sunday, November 01, 2009
The Last of Autumn
THE LAST OF AUTUMN
Come, bleak November, in thy wildness come:
Thy mornings clothed in rime, thy evenings chill;
E’en these have power to tempt me from my home,
E’en these have beauty to delight me still.
Though Nature lingers in her mourning weeds,
And wails the dying year in gusty blast,
Still added beauty to the last proceeds,
And wildness triumphs when her bloom is past.
Though long grass all the day is drench’d in dew,
And splashy pathways lead me o’er the greens;
Though naked fields hang lonely on the view,
Long lost to harvest and its busy scenes;
Yet in the distance shines the painted bough,
Leaves changed to every colour ere they die,
And through the valley rivers widen now,
Once little brooks which summer dribbled dry.
This is an extract from a lovely poem by John Clare who wrote a great deal of exquisite nature poetry filled with wonderful descriptions of the pastoral scenes that he knew and loved so well. I started doing extracts from his Shepherd's Calendat earlier this year then was overtaken by life and only managed to do May and June. Over the winter months I'll try and do some more along with other snippets of his poetry.