November by John Clare

Lyrics

The village sleeps in mist from morn till noon & if the sun wades thro tis wi a face Beamless & pale & round as if the moon When done the journey of its nightly race Had found him sleeping & supplyd his place For days the shepherds in the fields may be Nor mark a patch of sky — blind fold they trace The plains that seem wi out a bush or tree Wistling aloud by guess to flocks they cannot see The timid hare seems half its fears to loose Crouching & sleeping neath its grassy lare & scarcly startles tho the shepherd goes Close by its home & dogs are barking there Thе wild colt only turns around to stare At passers bye thеn naps his hide again & moody crows beside the road forbeer To flye tho pelted by the passing swain Thus day seems turned to night & trys to wake in vain The Owlet leaves her hiding place at noon & flaps her grey wings in the doubting light The hoarse jay screams to see her out so soon & small birds chirp & startle with affright Much doth it scare the superstitious wight Who dreams of sorry luck & sore dismay While cow boys think the day a dream of night & oft grow fearful on their lonely way Who fancy ghosts may wake & leave their graves by day The cleanly maiden thro the village streets In pattens clicks down causways never drye While eves above head drops — were oft she meets The school boy leering on wi mischiefs eye Trying to splash her as he hurrys bye While swains afield returning to their ploughs Their passing aid wi gentle speech apply & much loves rapture thrills when she alows Their help wi offerd hand to lead her oer the sloughs The hedger soakd wi the dull weather chops On at his toils which scarcly keeps him warm & every stroke he takes large swarms of drops Patter about him like an april storm The sticking dame wi cloak upon her arm To guard against a storm walks the wet leas Of willow groves or hedges round the farm Picking up aught her splashy wanderings sees Dead sticks the sudden winds have shook from off the trees The boy that scareth from the spirey wheat The mellancholy crow — quakes while he weaves Beneath the ivey tree a hut & seat Of rustling flags & sedges tyd in sheaves Or from nigh stubble shocks a shelter thieves There he doth dithering sit or entertain His leisure hours down hedges lost to leaves While spying nests where he spring eggs hath taen He wishes in his heart twas summer time again & oft he ll clamber up a sweeing tree To see the scarlet hunter hurry bye & feign woud in their merry uproar be But sullen labour hath its tethering tye Crows swop around & some on bushes nigh Watch for a chance when ere he turns away To settle down their hunger to supply From morn to eve his toil demands his stay Save now & then an hour which leisure steals for play Gaunt grey hounds now their coursing sports impart Wi long legs stretchd on tip toe for the chase & short loose ear & eye upon the start Swift as the wind their motio[n]s they unlace When bobs the hare up from her hiding place Who in its furry coat of fallow stain Squats on the lands or wi a dodging pace Tryes its old coverts of wood grass to gain & oft by cunning ways makes all their speed in vain Dull for a time the slumbering weather flings Its murky prison round then winds wake loud Wi sudden start the once still forest sings Winters returning song cloud races cloud & the orison throws away its shrowd & sweeps its stretching circle from the eye Storm upon storm in quick succession crowd & oer the samness of the purple skye Heaven paints its wild irregularity The shepherd oft foretells by simple ways The weathers change that will ere long prevail He marks the dull ass that grows wild & brays & sees the old cows gad adown the vale A summer race & snuff the coming gale The old dame sees her cat wi fears alarm Play hurly burly races wi its tale & while she stops her wheel her hands to warm She rubs her shooting corns & prophecys a storm Morts are the signs — the stone hid toad will croak & gobbling turkey cock wi noises vile Dropping his snout as flaming as a cloak Loose as a red rag oer his beak the while Urging the dame to turn her round & smile To see his uncooth pride her cloaths attack Sidling wi wings hung down in vapourey broil & feathers ruffld up while oer his back His tail spreads like a fan cross wavd wi bars of black The hog sturts round the stye & champs the straw & bolts about as if a dog was bye The steer will cease its gulping cud to chew & toss his head wi wild & startld eye At windshook straws — the geese will noise & flye Like wild ones to the pond — wi matted mane The cart horse squeals & kicks his partner nigh While leaning oer his fork the foddering swain The uproar marks around & dreams of wind & rain & quick it comes among the forest oaks Wi sobbing ebbs & uproar gathering high The scard hoarse raven on its cradle croaks & stock dove flocks in startld terrors flye While the blue hawk hangs oer them in the skye The shepherd happy when the day is done Hastes to his evening fire his cloaths to dry & forrester crouchd down the storm to shun Scarce hears amid the strife the poachers muttering gun The ploughman hears the sudden storm begin & hies for shelter from his naked toil Buttoning his doublet closer to his chin He speeds him hasty oer the elting soil While clouds above him in wild fury boil & winds drive heavily the beating rain He turns his back to catch his breath awhile Then ekes his speed & faces it again To seek the shepherds hut beside the rushy plain Oft stripping cottages & barns of thack Were startld farmer garnerd up his grain & wheat & bean & oat & barley stack Leaving them open to the beating rain The husbandman grieves oer his loss in vain & sparrows mourn their night nests spoild & bare The thackers they resume their toils again & stubbornly the tall red ladders bare While to oerweight the wind they hang old harrows there Thus wears the month along in checkerd moods Sunshine & shadow tempests loud & calms One hour dyes silent oer the sleepy woods The next wakes loud with unexpected storms A dreary nakedness the field deforms Yet many rural sounds & rural sights Live in the village still about the farms Where toils rude uproar hums from morn till night Noises in which the ear of industry delights Hoarse noise of field-free bull that strides ahead Of the tail switching herd to feed again The barking mastiff from his kennel bed Urging his teazing noise at passing swain The jostling rumble of the sturting wain From the farm yard were freedoms chance to wait The turkey drops his snout — & geese in vain Noise at the signal of the opening gate Then from the clowns whip flyes & finds the chance too late The pigeon wi its breast of many hues That spangles to the sun turns round & round About his timid sidling mate & croos Upon the cottage ridge were oer their heads The puddock sails oft swopping oer the pen Were timid chickens from their parent stray That skulk & scutter neath her wings agen Nor peeps no more till they have saild away & one bye one they peep & hardly dare to stray Such rural sounds the mornings tongue renews & rural sights swarm on the rustics eye The billy goat shakes from his beard the dews & jumps the wall wi carting teams to hie Upon the barn rig at their freedom flye The spotted guiney fowl — hogs in the stye Agen the door in rooting whinings stand The freed colt drops his head & gallops bye The boy that holds a scuttle in his hand Prefering unto toil the commons rushy land At length the noise of busy toil is still & industry awhile her care forgoes When winter comes in earnest to fulfil Her yearly task at bleak novembers close & stops the plough & hides the field in snows When frost locks up the streams in chill delay & mellows on the hedge the purple sloes For little birds — then toil hath time for play & nought but threshers flails awake the dreary day