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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419461" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>November</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;<br>And, if the sun looks through, 'tis with a face<br>Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,<br>When done the journey of her nightly race,<br>Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.<br>For days the shepherds in the fields may be,<br>Nor mark a patch of sky - blindfold they trace,<br>The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,<br>Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,<br>Crouching and sleeping 'neath its grassy lair,<br>And scarcely startles, tho' the shepherd goes<br>Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;<br>The wild colt only turns around to stare<br>At passer by, then knaps his hide again;<br>And moody crows beside the road forbear<br>To fly, tho' pelted by the passing swain;<br>Thus day seems turn'd to night, and tries to wake in vain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,<br>And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;<br>The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,<br>And small birds chirp and startle with affright;<br>Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,<br>Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;<br>While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,<br>And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,<br>Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings<br>Its murky prison round - then winds wake loud;<br>With sudden stir the startled forest sings<br>Winter's returning song - cloud races cloud,<br>And the horizon throws away its shroud,<br>Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;<br>Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,<br>And o'er the sameness of the purple sky<br>Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length it comes along the forest oaks,<br>With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;<br>The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,<br>And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,<br>While the blue hawk hangs o'er them in the sky.-<br>The hedger hastens from the storm begun,<br>To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;<br>And foresters low bent, the wind to shun,<br>Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,<br>And hies for shelter from his naked toil;<br>Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,<br>He bends and scampers o'er the elting soil,<br>While clouds above him in wild fury boil,<br>And winds drive heavily the beating rain;<br>He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,<br>Then ekes his speed and faces it again,<br>To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat<br>The melancholy crow - in hurry weaves,<br>Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat,<br>Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,<br>Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.<br>There he doth dithering sit, and entertain<br>His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;<br>Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en,<br>And wishing in his heart 'twas summer-time again.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus wears the month along, in checker'd moods,<br>Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;<br>One hour dies silent o'er the sleepy woods,<br>The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;<br>A dreary nakedness the field deforms -<br>Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,<br>Lives in the village still about the farms,<br>Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night<br>Noises, in which the ears of Industry delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">At length the stir of rural labour's still,<br>And Industry her care awhile forgoes;<br>When Winter comes in earnest to fulfil<br>His yearly task, at bleak November's close,<br>And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;<br>When frost locks up the stream in chill delay,<br>And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes,<br>For little birds - then Toil hath time for play,<br>And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Clare">John Clare</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419461" data-title="November de John Clare" data-description="The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;
And, if the sun looks through, 'tis with a face
Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,
When done the journey of her nightly race,
Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place.
For days the ..."></div>
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