November

Ernest W. Watson

November


The hills and leafless forests slowly yield
To the thick-driving snow. A little while
And night shall darken down. In shouting file
The woodmen's carts go by me homeward-wheeled,
Past the thin fading stubbles, half concealed,
Now golden-grey, sowed softly through with snow,
Where the last ploughman follows still his row,
Turning black furrows through the whitening field.

Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,
Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way;
The hills grow wintery white, and bleak winds moan
About the naked uplands. I alone
Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,
Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream.

Archibald Lampman

 

Word by word, line by line, Lampman builds the scene. Layer on layer, his description of the  sights and sounds accumulate to create a moment so real it feels like I could step right in. 

"Far off the village lamps begin to gleam,

Fast drives the snow, and no man comes this way..."

 

Each poet has their strong points, and Lampman is wonderful with drawing the reader right into the scene. If I were going to choose desert island poetry, I would take Lampman - round about noon a poem like this would cool me right down. This particular poem has a lovely slow rhythm I find mesmerizing, a little like Robert Frost's "Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening". The mood is similar. Maybe it's a snowfall effect, lulling and drowsy.

"I alone

Am neither sad, nor shelterless, nor grey,

Wrapped round with thought, content to watch and dream."