From the Chinese Poet, T'ao Yuan Ming

"I built my cottage among the habitations of men,
And yet there is no clamor of carriages and horses.
You ask: "Sir, how can this be done?"
"A heart that is distant creates its own solitude."
I pluck chrysanthemums under the eastern hedge,
Then gaze afar towards the southern hills.
The mountain air is fresh at the dusk of day;
The flying birds in flocks return.
In these things there lies a deep meaning;
I want to tell it, but have forgotten the words."
                                                  

November 1968 by Adrienne Rich

Stripped
you're beginning to float free
up through the smoke of brushfires
and incinerators
the unleafed branches won't hold you
nor the radar aerials

You're what the autumn knew would happen
after the last collapse
of primary color
once the last absolutes were torn to pieces
you could begin

How you broke open, what sheathed you
until this moment
I know nothing about it
my ignorance of you amazes me
now that I watch you
starting to give yourself away
to the wind

                                     Adrienne Rich 

Burning Leaves

Burning Leaves, November  

THESE are the folios of April, 

All the library of spring, 

Missals gilt and rubricated 

With the frost's illumining.

Ruthless, we destroy these treasures, 

Set the torch with hand profane-- 

Gone, like Alexandrian vellums, 

Like the books of burnt Louvain!

Yet these classics are immortal: 

O collectors, have no fear, 

For the publisher will issue 

New editions every year. 

                                         Christopher Morley

November Night

LISTEN . . . 

With faint dry sound, 

Like steps of passing ghosts, 

The leaves, frost-crisp'd, break from the trees 

And fall. 

                                   Adelaide Crapsey

November by Walter de la Mare

There is wind where the rose was, 
Cold rain where sweet grass was, 
And clouds like sheep 
Stream o'er the steep 
Grey skies where the lark was. 

Nought warm where your hand was, 
Nought gold where your hair was, 
But phantom, forlorn, 
Beneath the thorn, 
Your ghost where your face was. 

Cold wind where your voice was, 
Tears, tears where my heart was, 
And ever with me, 
Child, ever with me, 
Silence where hope was. 

                                       Walter de la Mare