JOHN CLARE: THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR 
 
NOVEMBER

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.

 

Comment: One verse from John Clare's 'November'