November by John Clare


Sybil of months, and worshipper of winds,
I love thee, rude and boisterous as thou art;
And scraps of joy my wandering ever finds
Mid thy uproarious madness—when the start
Of sudden tempests stirs the forest leaves
Into hoarse fury, till the shower set free
Stills the huge swells. Then ebb the mighty heaves,
That sway the forest like a troubled sea.
I love thy wizard noise, and rave in turn
Half-vacant thoughts and rhymes of careless form;
Then hide me from the shower, a short sojourn,
Neath ivied oak; and mutter to the storm,
Wishing its melody belonged to me,
That I might breathe a living song to thee.

a gate with trees around it

Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

a pair of feet with white shoes on a wet road

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the heart feels a languid grief

Laid on it for a covering,

And how sleep seems a goodly thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain

Falters because it is in vain,

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf

Knowest thou not? and how the chief

Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know’st thou not at the fall of the leaf

How the soul feels like a dried sheaf

Bound up at length for harvesting,

And how death seems a comely thing

In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

When You Are Old by William Butler Yeats

person's hand in shallow focus

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

To Autumn by John Keats

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,

   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;

      To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,

Until they think warm days will never cease,

      For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

   Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

      Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

   Steady thy laden head across a brook;

   Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,

      Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?

   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

   Among the river sallows, borne aloft

      Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft

   The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;

      And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

forest heat by sunbeam

Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven By W.B. Yeats

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

William Butler Yeats, widely considered one of the greatest poets of the English language, received the 1923 Nobel Prize for Literature. His work was greatly influenced by the heritage and politics of Ireland.

Sadly Neglected

I have been rather neglectful of my blog (which is unforgivable) for the last couple of months. However, as they say it is never too late to start again. 🙂 I apologize profusely to my readers and fellow bloggers for being extremely tardy in my dedication towards this blog and assure them that henceforth such misdemeanors shall not be repeated. I also need to catch up on my reading of other fellow bloggers who are much more regular and dedicated to their craft than I am such as Dale Tucker, Travellin’ Bob, and last but not the least, Evanescent Revelations.

This time I make a mid-year resolution of writing at least once a week and keeping both my mind and my craft alive through this blog 🙂

Au revoir !

Spam ! The Terrible Scourge of Spam !

I sincerely implore Vivaldi to do something about spam. It is becoming quite beastly with each passing day. Nowadays I dread visiting the dashboard of my blog due to this feeling of an impending doom of being terrorized by yet another avalanche of spam comments. During the initial days of this blog, the comments used to be small and easy to mark in a bulk. However, nowadays they tend to run throughout the entire length of my browser making it extremely tedious to mark them in bulk and block them indefinitely.

Kindly do something about this and save us hapless bloggers from the scourge of the never ending spam.

Regards,

A Rather Depressed Blogger

blue and brown cardboard boxes

W. B. Yeats’s ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

mountains surrounded by body of water

Back from a Hiatus

I have been rather irregular online primarily due to tremendous work pressure, a heat wave that swept across the plains of India and deadlines to meet. I apologize profusely to my readers for playing such truancy with my blog and writing. Hereafter I wish to rectify the same by being extremely regular with my daily scribbles and odd ruminations.

So much for now. Au revoir !

silhouette of woman raising her right hand during sunset