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A Calendar of Sonnets: November

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Willidly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet's day of pain?

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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The Violet And The Rose

The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,
Is longer sweet than roses of red June;
Set me sweet violets along my way,
And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.
Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?
Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through?
Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?
Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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The Bad Year

MAY, blighted by keen frosts, passed on to June
No blooms, but many a stalk with drooping leaves,
And arid Summer wilted these full soon,
And Autumn gathered up no wealthy sheaves;
Plaintive October saddened for the year,

But wild November raged that hope was past,
Shrieking, “All days of life are made how drear—
Wild whirls of snow! and Death comes driving fast.”
Yet sane December when the winds fell low,
And cold calm light with sunshine tinkled clear,

Harkened to bells more sweet than long ago,
And meditated in a mind sincere:—

“Beneath these snows shining from yon red west
How sleep the blooms of some delighted May,
And June shall riot, lovely as the best

That flung their odors forth on all their way;
Yes, violet Spring, the balms of her soft breath,
Her birdlike voice, the child-joy in her air,

Her gentle colors”—sane December saith
“They come, they come—O heart, sigh not ‘They were.’”

poem by Edward William Thomson
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Spring

Wake up again, sad heart, wake up again !
(I heard the birds this morning singing sweet.)
Wake up again ! The sky was crystal clear,
And washed quite clean with rain ;
And tar below my heart stirred with the year,
Stirred with the year and sighed. O pallid feet
Move now at last, O heart that sleeps with pain
Rise up and hear
The voices in the valleys, run to meet
The songs and shadows. O wake up again !

Put out green leaves, dead tree, put out green leaves t
(Last night the moon was soft and kissed the air.)
Put out green leaves ! The moon was in the skies,
All night she wakes and weaves.
The dew was on the grass like fairies' eyes,
Like fairies' eyes. O trees so black and bare,
Remember all the fruits, the full gold sheaves;
For nothing dies,
The songs that are, are silences that were,
Summer was Winter. O put but green leaves!

Break through the earth, pale flower, break through the earth !
(All day the lark has sung a madrigal.)
Break through the earth that lies not lightly yet
And waits thy patient birth,
Waits for the jonquil and the violet,
The violet. Full soon the heavy pall
Will be a bed, and in the noon of mirth
Some rivulet
Will bubble in my wilderness, some call
Will touch my silence. O break through the earth.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Last Days of Summer

Whatever the way the summer days end,
In the type of summer is how it has been,
Whether a good one or bad one,
The last days of summer,
Can be sad or happy endings,
As each season ends,
With another one beginning,

The summer could have been,
Miserable yet,
Sun scorching us everyday,
And sunlight shining on all our faces,
It is how it is,
Out there where all is seen,
In,
Summer days of fun,
Summer days of love,
Summer days of seeing,
Summer days of been,
Out and about where summer is,

And when summer came and went?
With a mundane feeling that it left?
Was the last days of summer,
And the begining of another,
Autumn as we know it,
Fall in other places,
Where the ending of one season shows,
By the decaying of it,
When Autumn Fall shows,

Where we will wrap up and snuggle,
With warm cuppas drinks,
With a book,
Or,
Catch up on watching films,
Yet,
Still,
Musing over the summer days,
Of sunshine memories,

Now,
Warm hats and gloves,
With rustle leaves,
That rustle beneath,
Our feet as we walk,
Through the park,
And see,
The summer leaves turn,
To autumn shades,
Taking in,
The last days of summer,

Reflecting,
And remember,
The falls of Autumn's,
Is the signs of summer,
That has ended,
And minglings with,
All that falls,
From the summer ending,
To autumn beginnings,
Is the,
Decaying,
Of summer,
To regrow itself,
For next season's of summer,
When it begins again,

Yet,
In between,
There's,
Autumn,
Winter,
Spring,
Till,
Again,
Last days of summer,
And all in bloom again.

poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-56

Violet(Viola spp.)

Going out of hand my heart
Questing for flora all over
And this Violet a divine art
When captured by manoeuvre
Bloomed a Violaceae-mart
Amazing me with a hang over
A hurried study did my heart
Of variety violas however
Just to end up with one Violet
Of whom small, shrubby some-some are
Perennial, annual some-some Violet
Of upswept four, lobed one lower
Petals of colours many to treat
Violet, blue yellow, white to flavour
Bicoloured some alongwith impart
All now in one hold to favour
Medicinal and culinary art
Heart and oval leaves to savor
Petaled perfume performing sweet

poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Death of the Flowers

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread;
The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers
Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain
Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,
And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow;
But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,
And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,
And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;
When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,
The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,
The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.
In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf,
And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:
Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

poem by William Cullen Bryant
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Signs Of Fall

It was a ceremony of Sparrows
Their Psalms sung on bare branches
Of Fall
Breaking, 'tis the dawn, through my frosty window
Opening to their crisp
Musical Call

The orange and gold, fallen leaves
Blow their way towards God
And The Aristocrat
Of the Robin-Red-Breast
Leaves his remanents
Upon, The New Fall Sod

The Pumpkins, they are ever ripening...
The Gourds and maze, adorn
Waving it's goodbye in the breeze
The End of Summer
With open arms, welcomed in
Autumns New Morn

The once, moist, glistening of dew
Counted on, during late summer days
Has become crystal-like
To Frosty
With each day, That Autumn Makes her way

The Equinox has now, come and gone
...When hours of light and dark equate
Making it ever
SO Official
That Autumn 'Tis Never Late

poem by Theodora Onken
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My Frost-King - Song II

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And on the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The 'Power of Love,' by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Brighter Shone The Golden Shadows

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And o'er the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The 'Power of Love,' by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Hendecasyllabics

In the month of the long decline of roses
I, beholding the summer dead before me,
Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent,
Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark
Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions
Half divided the eyelids of the sunset;
Till I heard as it were a noise of waters
Moving tremulous under feet of angels
Multitudinous, out of all the heavens;
Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage,
Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow;
And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels,
Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight,
Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel,
Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not,
Winds not born in the north nor any quarter,
Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine;
Heard between them a voice of exultation,
'Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded,
Even like as a leaf the year is withered,
All the fruits of the day from all her branches
Gathered, neither is any left to gather.
All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms,
All are taken away; the season wasted,
Like an ember among the fallen ashes.
Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight,
Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost,
We bring flowers that fade not after autumn,
Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons,
Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser),
Woven under the eyes of stars and planets
When low light was upon the windy reaches
Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily
Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows
And green fields of the sea that make no pasture:
Since the winter begins, the weeping winter,
All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples
Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever.'

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Frost-King' Song II

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,
And on the home of happy flowers
The golden light for ever lay.
Thus the Fairy mission ended,
And all Flower-Land was taught
The "Power of Love," by gentle deeds
That little Violet wrought.

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Farewell To Summer

It has begun: a few leaves are falling;
Autumn has started its gentle calling.
Summer is slowly coming to an end;
Now autumn wants to be our friend.

During autumn, we may feel a little cold,
But, in return, we've been promised gold.
Golden leaves will be found all around:
Up in the trees, and down on the ground.

Leaves of yellow, brown, orange, and fiery red,
Will form a coloured carpet to soften our tread.
We'll be presented with a whole wealth of riches,
As, from summer to autumn, the season switches.

The tall, towering trees will be set ablaze,
As traces of summer are slowly erased.
Sorely missed will be summer's long days;
Sorely missed will be summer's warm rays.

But time moves on, and the summer must go;
No doubt we'll be dazzled by autumn's show.
Autumn prefers to paint us a different scene;
It likes to wipe summer's colour palette clean.

Some say farewell to summer with a sad tear,
But, others much prefer this time of the year.
Chill September mornings may be here again,
But our memories of this summer will remain.

poem by Angela Wybrow
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The Violet

UPON the mead a violet stood,
Retiring, and of modest mood,

In truth, a violet fair.
Then came a youthful shepherdess,
And roam'd with sprightly joyousness,
And blithely woo'd

With carols sweet the air

"Ah!" thought the violet, "had I been
For but the smallest moment e'en

Nature's most beauteous flower,
'Till gather'd by my love, and press'd,
When weary, 'gainst her gentle breast,
For e'en, for e'en

One quarter of an hour!"

Alas! alas! the maid drew nigh,
The violet failed to meet her eye,

She crush'd the violet sweet.
It sank and died, yet murmur'd not:
"And if I die, oh, happy lot,
For her I die,

And at her very feet!"

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Purple Forest

I walk into a purple forest
The place is magical and free
The grass is violet, the sky is white
Purple defines every tree

I walk into a purple forest
There are purple buzzing bees
And a swamp of violet waters
creep up to my knees

I walk into a purple forest
A streak of purple runs across the sky
I hear a gentle whisper say
It was a fairy passing by

I walk into a purple forest
On violet sod I lie my head
But later, of course
I awake in my bed

poem by Summer Song
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Vae Victis!

Here in this isle
The summer still lingers,
And Autumn's brown fingers
So busy the while
With the leaves in the north;
Are scarcely put forth
In this land where the sun still glows like an ember,.
In mid-November.

In England it's cold,
And the yellow and red
Of October have fled ;
And the sun is wet gold
Like an emperor weeping,
When Death goes a-reaping
All through his empire, merciless comer
The dead things of summer.

The sky has cried so
That the earth is all sodden,
With dead leaves in-trodden,
And the trees to and fro
Wave their arms in the air
In despair, in despair :
They are thinking of all the hot days that are over,
And the cows in the clover.

Here the roses are out,
And the sun at high noon
Makes the birds faint and swoon.
But the cricket's about
With his song, and the hum
Of the bees as they come
To feast at the honey-board laden and groaning,
Makes musical droning.

But vainly, alas !
Do I hide in the south,
Kiss close with my mouth
Red flowers, green grass,
For Autumn has found me
And thrown her arms around me.
She has breathed on my lips and I wander apart,
Dead leaves in my heart.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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When the Lavender Returns

As cold as ice
Wrapped round your brain
And darkness unfolds
You’re breathing in pain

It’s been freezing here
In this Land of Shattered Dreams
It’s been freezing here
This corrupted winter stings

It’s been freezing here
(Où est la Lavande?)
Your body can’t stay warm
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’s been freezing here
(Où est la Lavande?)
This cruel and criminal storm
(Où est la Lavande?)

But don’t give up
Don’t despair
Taste the hope
Floating through the air

When the lavender returns
It’ll warm your frozen bones
Vivid violet clothes
In their candy overtones

When the lavender returns
It’ll race across the land
Rebel flower grows
In the palm of your free hand

If you look out your window
The ground’s parched and bare
If you call for your lover
She’s no longer there
If you ponder your life
Well, it feels like a wreck
And your failures are scars
You can never forget

As leaves turn brown
Sky fades to grey
You’re feeling the drought
The end of the day

It’s been lonely here
In this World of Fallen Souls
It’s been lonely here
With nowhere left to go

But don’t give up
Don’t despair
Taste the hope
Floating through the air

When the lavender returns
It’ll warm your frozen bones
Vivid violet clothes
In their candy overtones

When the lavender returns
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’ll race across the land
(Où est la Lavande?)
Rebel flower grows
(Où est la Lavande?)
In the palm of your free hand
(Où est la Lavande?)

When the lavender returns
(Où est la Lavande?)
It’ll warm your frozen bones
(Où est la Lavande?)
Vivid violet clothes
(Où est la Lavande?)
In their candy overtones
(Où est la Lavande?)

poem by Catman Cohen
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Indian Summer Wonder

What is this field of flowers?
With cover of blue sky & Autumn sun?
Roses still abloom aplenty
Even as frosty day has begun
Marveling at the forms and shapes of it all
I wander myself down the violet lane
Noting the perfection of this Indian Summer
The self-blazing flowers call out my name
The motion of the wind in the tree branches
Dress up this discrete journey i am on
Caterpillar moves slowly along one of its leaves
As the Warblers break forth in new song
Glorious-glorious Autumn simply dances
As delicious pumpkin and spice fill the air
Indian Summer romances this Earths landscape
While i kneel for a: Thanksgiving Prayer
Praying for all of this goodness to always be
Asking for many a glorious days noon
Basking in this hour of breath-taking splendour
While embracing a most brillant Harvest moon

By, Theodora Onken (Theo)

October 22,2011

poem by Theodora Onken
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Autumn Days

I have been through the woods to-day
And the leaves were falling,
Summer had crept away,
And the birds were not calling.

And the bracken was like yellow gold
That comes too late,
When the heart is sad and old,
And death at the gate.

Ah, mournful Autumn ! Sad,
Slow death that comes at last,
I am mad for a yesterday, mad !
I am sick for a year that is past!

Though the sun be like blood in the sky
He is cold as the lips of hate,
And he fires the sere leaves as they lie
On their bed of earth, too late.

They are dead, and the bare trees weep
Not loud as a mortal weeping,
But as sorrow that sighs in sleep,
And as grief that is still in sleeping.

poem by Lord Alfred Douglas
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Purple Violet

Purple violet
You live in my garden
Druring the summer months
And that girl
That lives next door
Is wearing a purple violet dress today
so that she can go to school in style
Like the rest of the other kids
But one thing that I have noticed
Is that she is not as rich like the other kids
In her school

poem by Aldo Kraas
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They made me suspect

They made me suspect
Suspect that the blue violet
Hides poison in its mystery
And wide-eyed beauty weeping in the glooms
Of dusky eves half-hidden from the day
And in the other half from dark Night kept.

Therefore I
From the blue violet kept away
Admiring from afar
And loving from afar all fearfully.

And thus I left in solitude
The blue violet to the plaintive moon
And to the dewy paces of the dawn
Passing by on the grass from her east cave
And to the wan embraces of the wanton Night
When darkling wavelets lap their way to shore
When nightingales sing their silver melody
At the full distant faces of the startled stars
Fleeing before the madness of the Night
Into the ever-expanding universe that is
Of all of us and all of us contains.

And the blue violet lay in solitude
Like an unstrung Venetian violin
In summer nights where crimes occur and lovers rapid flee.

poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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