From the hauntingly beautiful to the light-hearted and whimsical, November poems offer a glimpse into the world of late autumn.
As the days grow shorter and the air becomes crisper, these November poems serve as a reminder to cherish the fleeting beauty of the season.
Whether you’re in the mood for something funny, inspirational, or romantic, there’s a November poem for every mood!
So grab a cozy blanket, curl up with a hot cup of tea, and allow yourself to be transported to the unforgettable view of late autumn.
Ready to read poems about November?
Famous November Poems
Whether you’re a lover of classic literature or simply looking to explore the world of November poetry, these famous poems about November are not to be missed.
by Fray Narte
Find me tearing violets, my love,
in a manic daze; I am running out of softness and daylight,
like winter’s cruel hours
“but I will crown your hair with these torn violet tiaras
and your soft throat, twine with woven garlands”
and I will dig into my tongue for the remaining metaphors
beneath the bourbon, until odes drench my lips,
I will stitch my wounds shut and ready for your apricot kisses —
I ache to be kissed away,
to waste away before your sun-speckled eyes
like a tiny fae in your flower basket, I ache to settle
in your dainty hands,
in lithe fingers lost in my wind-blown hair.
My November, my gentlest love,
how I breathe you in like my grandmother’s letters —
how you consume me
in curious ways
and for the first time, I am not afraid of the softness
buried and warm inside my bone marrows.
Tell me, darling, will you stay?
Will we stay
for more than a kiss?
Will we linger longer
than silhouettes in a dream?
2. On the Beach in November
by Edward Cracroft LeFroy
My heart’s Ideal, that somewhere out of sight
Art beautiful and gracious and alone,—
Haply, where blue Saronic waves are blown
On shores that keep some touch of old delight,—
How welcome is thy memory, and how bright,
To one who watches over leagues of stone
These chilly northern waters creep and moan
From weary morning unto weary night.
O Shade-form, lovelier than the living crowd,
So kind to votaries, yet thyself unvowed,
So free to human fancies, fancy-free,
My vagrant thought goes out to thee, to thee,
As wandering lonelier than the Poet’s cloud,
I listen to the wash of this dull sea.
by Nannie R. Glass
November is so drear and chill
Whilst making leafless branch and tree,
Whilst sweeping over vale and hill
With all her doleful minstrelsy.
November wails the summer’s death
In such a melancholy voice,
She has a withering, blighting breath;
She does not bid the heart rejoice.
Yet why repine, thou stricken one?
Grief is the common fate of all.
This the refrain beneath the sun:
Mortals must die, and leaves must fall.
They’ll live again, the leaves and flowers,
When spring returns to bless the earth;
They’ll waken ‘neath her sunny hours
Through nature’s touch to beauteous birth.
Hope in decay and do not moan
That God has taken one we love;
Why should our hearts be turned to stone
When he is safe in heaven above?
Redeemed through Christ, who was his trust,
With him in realms of joy on high;
For though down here “’tis dust to dust,”
The Christian lives beyond the sky.
Then in the autumn’s woe rejoice,—
Rejoice in calm, rejoice in storm;
In either hear God’s tender voice,
For both his holy will perform.
4. November Fall
It was on November,
when you stopped writing me poems,
giving me notes
and singing me songs.
It was on November,
when your hugs
felt a bit lighter.
They used to be so much tighter.
It was on that month
when the fall began.
When the ghosts of the past,
came hunting us back
In the form of someone.
And I watched as you fell,
on the graves
of an old love.
Leaving me in pieces.
I buried you in peace,
Not a single tear I shed.
Because you said,
it would be a shame
to cry for a man so lame.
So I never did,
I never cried.
Now, the ghosts no longer comes back.
And the only ones that never cease
on hunting me,
Were our memories.
by Elizabeth Stoddard
Much have I spoken of the faded leaf;
Long have I listened to the wailing wind,
And watched it ploughing through the heavy clouds;
For autumn charms my melancholy mind.
When autumn comes, the poets sing a dirge:
The year must perish; all the flowers are dead;
The sheaves are gathered; and the mottled quail
Runs in the stubble, but the lark has fled!
Still, autumn ushers in the Christmas cheer,
The holly-berries and the ivy-tree:
They weave a chaplet for the Old Year’s heir;
These waiting mourners do not sing for me!
I find sweet peace in depths of autumn woods,
Where grow the ragged ferns and roughened moss;
The naked, silent trees have taught me this,—
The loss of beauty is not always loss!
6. A November Day
by Mary B. C. Slade
I come, a sad November day,
Gray clad from foot to head;
A few late leaves of yellow birch,
A few of maple red.
And, should you look, you might descry
Some wee ferns, hiding low,
Or late Fall dandelions shy,
Where cold winds cannot blow.
And then, you see, I’m not all gray;
A little golden light
Shines on a sad November day,
A promise for the night.
For though gray-clad, in soft gray mist,
Floating on gray-cloud wing,
I know that I the way prepare
For brightest days of Spring.
And though witch-hazel’s golden flowers
Are all the blooms I know,
They promise—so do I—the hours
When sweetest Mayflowers grow.
by Charles L. Cleaveland
When thistle-blows do lightly float
About the pasture height,
And shrills the hawk a parting note,
And creeps the frost at night,
Then hilly ho! though singing so,
And whistle as I may,
There comes again the old heart pain
In high wind creaks the leafless tree
And nods the fading fern;
The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be,
And cold the sun does burn.
Then ho, hollo! though calling so,
I cannot keep it down;
The tears arise unto my eyes,
And thoughts are chill and brown.
Far in the cedars’ dusky stoles,
Where the sere ground-vine weaves,
The partridge drums funereal rolls
Above the fallen leaves.
And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so,
It stills no whit the pain;
For drip, drip, drip, from bare branch-tip,
I hear the year’s last rain.
So drive the cold cows from the hill,
And call the wet sheep in;
And let their stamping clatter fill
The barn with warming din.
And ho, folk, ho! though it be so
That we no more may roam,
We still will find a cheerful mind
Around the fire at home!
8. November, November, November
There is yellow on the leaves,
they shiver in this air, tremble
at the rain that falls
around them; it is a lovely day today
Grey hangs from the sky,
droops around the pavement so wet, rustles
the darkening daytime light
outside the window; it is a lovely day today
I sit inside this heated room
and yet, I feel the shiver from outside, I feel
the rain that hangs from this grey colored
sky, I am in awe at the yellow leaves that fall
it is a lovely day today
9. Leave Taking
Brilliant leaves abandon
to waltz upon ecstatic winds
until they die.
But the barren and embittered trees
lament the frolic of the leaves
and curse the bleak
Now, as I watch the leaves’
before the fading autumn light,
I think that, perhaps, at last I may
have learned what it means to say
Funny November Poems
While November can be a somewhat melancholy season, it doesn’t mean there’s no room for humor. From playful rhymes to witty observations about the season, these interesting poems about November are sure to bring a smile to your face.
1. The Fourth Thursday of November
by Gershon Wolf
I often wonder why Election Day
is not on the fourth Thursday
I, for one, would like a chance to select
~ a whole bunch of ‘turkeys-elect’
by Paula Goldsmith
November will be gone real soon.
I wonder if we will have a blue moon.
That would make a funny cartoon.
Can we have stars and a balloon.
3. November Blues
by Geoffrey Brewer
Once more the seasons turn to time for change
The sun adjusts to lower its trajectory
The fates have cause once more to disarrange
Emotions and confer an elan-ectomy
As many have observed two things are certain
Although we may resist a near demise
One sure contingency will raise a curtain
On that other threat to slowly jeopardise
With smile like crocodile and salutation
He writes ‘It’s been so long! Please get in touch’
Our ‘friend’ would really welcome our collation
Of generous donations to his clutch
Will Hell be desolate with fire that burns
Or eternity of endless tax returns
by Josette Key
Let’s bow our heads and pray
Today’s Thanksgiving day.
Poor old turkey got the axe
Bet he wished he’d never been hatched.
Turkey, mashed potatoes, yams
Consume mass quantities but never ham.
Eat too much and pop your zipper
“Hey Honey, where’s the Alka Seltzer”?
5. A Turkey in November
by Edward Ibeh
Gobble! Gobble! Gobble!
Quick! Quick! Quick! Please save me!
I don’t want to end up…
on plates Thanksgiving Day!
Take me to the leader;
our President, I mean!
If you could feel my dread…
I need to be pardoned!
6. Sadness of November
by Lee Ramage
Nights bring longer darkness, all I want to do is sleep,
Outside the weather worsens, the snow will soon be deep.
Vines heavy with grapes await to be made into ice wine,
Each headache after, is worth it, from the nectar so sublime.
Making pumpkin pie and sipping apple cider – ACHOO!
Better make chicken soup too, now I’ve got the Flu.
Everything is warning me that old man winter is on its way,
Recognizing this sad reality, oh yes, it’s also another birthday!
by Jimmi Canada
a riddler on relief;
an ancient beat-
a walking priest,
An ancient thief-
floating on now,
foraging in the great wild,
…it was like a drum,
oh it was so fun,
yadda da da da.
Inspirational November Poems
November can be a time of reflection and contemplation, as we prepare for the colder months ahead. Inspirational poems about November can provide comfort and guidance during this time, offering words of wisdom and hope.
by William Cullen Bryant
Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o’er the frozen earth, the loud winds ran,
Or snows are sifted o’er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue Gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee
Shall murmur by the hedge that skim the way,
The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,
And man delight to linger in thy ray.
Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear
The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.
by Rebecca Hey
Who has not felt upon a Summer’s day,
When Nature trick’d herself in all her bloom,
That this fair world did seem too blest a home
For man, sin’s willing slave, death’s lawful prey?
It was a summer thought, and pass’d away
When bright things fled: now, by November’s gloom
Unparadised, Earth seems to share his doom,
And his sad lapse reflect in her decay.
All life seems dead! Methinks, the very blast
Lacks the redeeming grandeur, the wild sweep,
Of Winter’s ruthless tempest, which lays waste
The hoary forest, and doth rouse from sleep
Nature’s mute energies, till earth, sea, sky,
Yield to its challenge fierce, as fierce reply.
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.
by Carl Holliday
A gray-brown field and a misty hill,
A deepening shadow in every rill,
A calm, and, lo, from all around
A strange, far sound.
A gathering-in of the fruit of hand,
A sighing for rest in the weary land,
A haze of smoke, and the leaves’ dry heap
For things that sleep.
A psalm to God and a prayer that He
The guardian of our harvest be,
That we may midst the winter’s roar
Find joy in store.
5. My November Guest
by Robert Frost
My Sorrow, when she’s here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She’s glad the birds are gone away,
She’s glad her simple worsted grady
Is silver now with clinging mist.
The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so ryly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.
Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell he so,
And they are better for her praise.
Short November Poems
Sometimes, less is more. Short poetries about November can capture the essence of the season in just a few lines, making them perfect for sharing on social media, especially as Instagram caption.
1. November Night
With faint dry sound,
Like steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisp’d, break from the trees
by E. C.
I would forget so many things;
The moaning wind, and rain,
Uncanny sounds of ghostly hands
At door and window pane.
I would forget the perished leaves
And grass, dismantled trees—
Old loves and hopes, the youth of me
That passed away with these.
But when I see November come,
How shall I then forget;
The other years return with her—
Remembrance and regret.
by Emily Dickinson
Besides the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eyes, —
Gone Mr. Bryant’s golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson’s sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!
4. Caught in November
by Nour Mghh
We weren’t supposed
To come across one another
It was a November breeze
That made us crash into
Each other’s arms
Just to leave us
Shattered in pieces
by Neth Jones
sky like combed smoke
unseasonably warm for mid November
carrying my coat
I wonder if winter depression
can be missed this year
6. I Miss the Snow
The November asphalt is stolen,
enraptured and torn by
cracks of a longing summer’s kiss.
Oh, where did the winter’s magic go?
Where is the ice-cold embrace,
the beautifully written crystal maze
by Ruby Archer
Our twilight month November is,
The evening of the year.
The brilliant summer noontide left
A pallor soft and clear.
Dame Winter brings with quiet grace
Her curtains all of snow,
And pins them deftly into place
With boughs of mistletoe.
by William Wallace Maxim
The low dull, hollow sound within the forest,
The leafy tree that seems to stand aghast
Beside the ghostly lines of flickering shadow,
Proclaim the summer gone, the harvest past.
The rustling reeds that erst gave up their juices
To sighing winds, are standing stark and gray;
Health breezes blow among the pines and spruces,
And down the rocky leaf-strewn gorges play.
Long November Poems
These long poetries about November can take you on a journey through the changing landscapes and emotions of the season, providing a rich tapestry of imagery and language.
by Emma Shuman
November, gloomy eyed and sullen browed,
With sweeping garment of a misty hue,
Comes gliding with slow step across the land,
And straightway at her feet rise moaning winds,
That sing a requiem for the summer, dead
And buried deep beneath the autumn leaves.
Anon the giant trees take up the strain,
With louder voice and naked arms wide tossed,
Do groan and sigh in helpless agony
At touch of her prophetic hand,
Which creeping slowly up and ever up,
Doth sap their very vitals and enwrap
Them fast in winter’s death.
The little brook that lately kissed the bank
Through sunny hours and glints of leafy shade,
Babbling the while unto the listening ferns,
That ever bent their graceful heads
To answer his caress,
Now silent slips away as one who hears a foe behind,
Bearing upon his bosom brown and sere
The lifeless forms of those he lately loved.
Adown the glen the summer winds rush with discordant sigh,
While all the tiny folk that habit in the wood
Seek low their shelter.
Stealthily she passed as one who but obeys a stronger power,
Yet is the deed most hateful in her sight,
Then from her mantle’s many folds
There fell a pearl like mist that straightway wrought
A magic in its touch on all below,
Changing the brown to gray, the brilliant red to brown,
Clothing the bare boughs in their winding sheet,
And decking every blade and stem,
Investment white for burial.
A pause, in which all nature stands aghast,
While heavy bends the sky its weeping clouds
In sorrow at the sight;
Another, and the topmost branches bow
Their allegiance to the Icy King,
Who swiftly riding in his windy clouds,
Doth warn of his approach.
A moment more and the fierce northern steeds
Are hard upon the scene,
While thick and fast the snowy pall is laid
On all the land.
Why muse in sadness on this swift decay?
’Tis but the death of nature that must come
To aid the spring of life perennial;
Without which no life is, nor can exist,
And through which comes the perfect life above,
For which we sleep as sleep these flowers
Beneath the winter’s snow,
To bloom the brighter when the Maker’s hand
Quickens the germs of immortality
And bids us spring as they will spring,
Beauteous and free from every touch of earth,
Through this long sleep.
by Robert William Service
Today I opened wide my eyes,
And stared with wonder and surprise,
To see beneath November skies
An apple blossom peer;
Upon a branch as bleak as night
It gleamed exultant on my sight,
A fairy beacon burning bright
Of hope and cheer.
“Alas!” said I, “poor foolish thing,
Have you mistaken this for Spring?
Behold, the thrush has taken wing,
And Winter’s near.
Serene it seemed to lift its head:
“The Winter’s wrath I do not dread,
Because I am,” it proudly said,
“Some apple blossom must be first,
With beauty’s urgency to burst
Into a world for joy athirst,
And so I dare;
And I shall see what none shall see –
December skies gloom over me,
And mock them with my April glee,
And fearless fare.
“And I shall hear what none shall hear –
The hardy robin piping clear,
The Storm King gallop dark and drear
Across the sky;
And I shall know what none shall know –
The silent kisses of the snow,
The Christmas candles’ silver glow,
Before I die.
“Then from your frost-gemmed window pane
One morning you will look in vain,
My smile of delicate disdain
No more to see;
But though I pass before my time,
And perish in the grale and grime,
Maybe you’ll have a little rhyme
To spare for me.
3. November Rain
by Ellen P. Allerton
November rain! November rain!
Fitfully beating the window pane:
Creeping in pools across the street;
Clinging in slush to dainty feet;
Shrouding in black the sun at noon;
Wrapping a pall about the moon.
Out in the darkness, sobbing, sighing,
Yonder, where the dead are lying,
Over mounds with headstones gray,
And new ones made but yesterday—
Weeps the rain above the mould,
Weeps the night-rain, sad and cold.
The low wind wails—a voice of pain.
Fit to chime with the weeping rain.
Dirge-like, solemn, it sinks and swells,
Till I start and listen for tolling bells,
And let them toll—the summer fled,
Wild winds and rain bewail the dead.
And yet not dead. A prophesy
Over wintry wastes comes down to me,
Strong, exultant, floating down
Over frozen fields and forests brown,
Clear and sweet it peals and swells,
Like New Year chimes from midnight bells.
It tells of a heart with life aglow,
Throbbing under the shrouding snow,
Beating, beating with pulses warm,
While roars above it the gusty storm.
Asleep—not dead—your grief is vain,
Wild, wailing winds, November rain.
by William Cullen Bryant
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.
5. A November Night
by Sara Teasdale
There! See the line of lights,
A chain of stars down either side the street —
Why can’t you lift the chain and give it to me,
A necklace for my throat? I’d twist it round
And you could play with it.
You smile at me
As though I were a little dreamy child
Behind whose eyes the fairies live.
The people on the street look up at us
We are a king and queen,
Our royal carriage is a motor bus,
We watch our subjects with a haughty joy.
How still you are! Have you been hard at work
And are you tired to-night? It is so long
Since I have seen you — four whole days, I think.
My heart is crowded full of foolish thoughts
Like early flowers in an April meadow,
And I must give them to you, all of them,
Before they fade.
The people I have met,
The play I saw, the trivial, shifting things
That loom too big or shrink too little, shadows
That hurry, gesturing along a wall,
Haunting or gay — and yet they all grow real
And take their proper size here in my heart
When you have seen them.
There’s the Plaza now,
A lake of light! To-night it almost seems
That all the lights are gathered in your eyes,
Drawn somehow toward you.
See the open park
Lying below us with a million lamps
Scattered in wise disorder like the stars.
We look down on them as God must look down
On constellations floating under Him
Tangled in clouds.
Come, then, and let us walk
Since we have reached the park.
It is our garden,
All black and blossomless this winter night,
But we bring April with us, you and I;
We set the whole world on the trail of spring.
I think that every path we ever took
Has marked our footprints in mysterious fire,
Delicate gold that only fairies see.
When they wake up at dawn in hollow tree-trunks
And come out on the drowsy park, they look
Along the empty paths and say, “Oh, here
They went, and here, and here, and here! Come, see,
Here is their bench, take hands and let us dance
About it in a windy ring and make
A circle round it only they can cross
When they come back again!” .
Look at the lake —
Do you remember how we watched the swans
That night in late October while they slept?
Swans must have stately dreams, I think.
The lake bears only thin reflected lights
That shake a little.
How I long to take
One from the cold black water — new-made gold
To give you in your hand! And see, and see,
There is a star, deep in the lake, a star!
Oh, dimmer than a pearl — if you stoop down
Your hand could almost reach it up to me.
There was a new frail yellow moon to-night —
I wish you could have had it for a cup
With stars like dew to fill it to the brim.
How cold it is! Even the lights are cold;
They have put shawls of fog around them, see!
What if the air should grow so dimly white
That we would lose our way along the paths
Made new by walls of moving mist receding
The more we follow.
What a silver night!
That was our bench the time you said to me
The long new poem — but how different now,
How eerie with the curtain of the fog
Making it strange to all the friendly trees!
There is no wind, and yet great curving scrolls
Carve themselves, ever changing, in the mist.
Walk on a little, let me stand here watching
To see you, too, grown strange to me and far.
I used to wonder how the park would be
If one night we could have it all alone —
No lovers with close arm-encircled waists
To whisper and break in upon our dreams.
And now we have it! Every wish comes true!
We are alone now in a fleecy world;
Even the stars have gone.
We two alone!
6. November’s Dying Notes
by Anne Billinge
November takes delight in cloaking herself in gloom,
the sun rarely finding chinks in her leaden armour,
a few amber leaves still cling fluttering tenaciously,
anxiously awaiting the winds to bring death’s release.
a black bird resignedly hunches its shoulders against the cold,
seeking a warm spot in the apple tree’s gnarled branches;
the ornamental grasses, that swayed to summer’s soft melody,
anchored in place, as frozen sentinels, by the sharp winter frost.
ebonised branches fling themselves against a lumbering sky,
dead mens’ fingers imploringly seeking a path towards sunlight;
even the stone statues take on a brooding silent air,
sensing no solace to be found at the dying of the year.
conifer trees glower threateningly against a lowering sky,
no Christmas lights to illuminate their outstretched bowers;
only a solitary crow’s complaining cry disturbs the silence,
voicing his disdain at November’s chill uncaring face.
the fruits of autumn are a distant ghostly memory,
abundant windfall apples lie dying in abandoned decay;
slowly the days march down towards deep midwinter
and all beneath the soil enthralls to the promise of spring’s kiss.
November Poems That Rhyme
Poems about November with rhyming words that rhyme can be playful or serious, but they always have a musical quality that makes them a joy to read aloud.
by Alice Cary
The leaves are fading and falling,
The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling,
But let me tell, you my child,
Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.
And when the Winter is over,
The boughs will get new leaves,
The quail come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.
The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest way-side blossom
Will shine with the sun and dew.
The leaves to-day are whirling,
The brooks are all dry and dumb,
But let me tell, you my darling,
The Spring will be sure to come.
There must be rough, cold weather,
And winds and rains so wild;
Not all good things together
Come to us here, my child.
So, when some dear joy loses
Its beauteous summer glow,
Think how the roots of the roses
Are kept alive in the snow.
2. When the Year Grows Old
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
How she disliked the cold!
She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a little sharp sigh.
And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,
She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!
Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!
But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!
I cannot but remember
When the year grows old —
October — November —
How she disliked the cold!
3. November Twilight
by Bliss Carman
Now Winter at the end of day
Along the ridges takes her way,
Upon her twilight round to light
The faithful candles of the night.
As quiet as the nun she goes
With silver lamp in hand, to close
The silent doors of dusk that keep
The hours of memory and sleep.
She pauses to tread out the fires
Where Autumn’s festal train retires.
The last red embers smoulder down
Behind the steeples of the town.
Austere and fine the trees stand bare
And moveless in the frosty air,
Against the pure and paling light
Before the threshold of the night.
On purple valley and dim wood
The timeless hush of solitude
Is laid, as if the time for some
Transcending mystery were come,
That shall illumine and console
The penitent and eager soul,
Setting her free to stand before
Supernal beauty and adore.
Dear Heart, in heaven’s high portico
It is the hour of prayer. And lo,
Above the earth, serene and still,
One star —our star —o’er Lonetree Hill!
by Paul Hamilton Hayne
Within the deep-blue eyes of Heaven a haze
Of saddened passion dims their tender light,
For that her fair queen-child the Summer bright,
Lies a wan corse amidst her mouldering bays:
The sullen Autumn lifts no voice of praise
To herald Winter’s cold and cruel might,
But winds foreboding fill the desolate night,
And die at dawning down wild woodland ways:
The sovereign sun at noonday smileth cold,
As through a shroud he hath no power to part,
While huddled flocks crouch listless round their fold;
The mock-bird’s dumb, no more with cheerful dart:
Upsoars the lark through morning’s quivering gold,
And dumb or dead, methinks, great Nature’s heart!
5. Pity of the Leaves
by Edgar Arlington Robinson
Vengeful across the cold November moors,
Loud with ancestral shame there came the bleak
Sad wind that shrieked, and answered with a shriek,
Reverberant through lonely corridors.
The old man heard it; and he heard, perforce,
Words out of lips that were no more to speak—
Words of the past that shook the old man’s cheek
Like dead, remembered footsteps on old floors.
And then there were the leaves that plagued him so!
The brown, thin leaves that on the stones outside
Skipped with a freezing whisper.
Now and then
They stopped, and stayed there—just to let him know
How dead they were; but if the old man cried,
They fluttered off like withered souls of men.
by Annette Wynne
No matter how hard you try,
Old crying wind, you cannot make us cry,
You make the poor leaves sorry—very,
But we shall keep on being merry;
It’s good it’s true
Not all the months behave like you,
Blowing mean, and blowing cold,
Hurting ragged folks and old,
As if you never would be through;
But never mind,
Right near the end we’ll find
A time for all to laugh and play;
You may be all the month unkind
But after all, you bring Thanksgiving Day
And that makes us glad—
And so, cold old month, you’re not so bad!
November Poems for Children
November poems for kids can be whimsical, educational, or simply fun, providing a gateway to the world of poetry that will stay with them for years to come.
1. A Child’s Calendar – November
by John Updike
The stripped and shapely
The ghosts of her
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
2. November Morning
by Evaleen Stein
A tingling, misty marvel
Blew hither in the night,
And now the little peach-trees
Are clasped in frozen light.
Upon the apple-branches
An icy film is caught,
With trailing threads of gossamer
In pearly patterns wrought.
The autumn sun, in wonder,
Is gayly peering through
This silver-tissued network
Across the frosty blue.
The weather-vane is fire-tipped,
The honeysuckle shows
A dazzling icy splendor,
And crystal is the rose.
Around the eaves are fringes
Of icicles that seem
To mock the summer rainbows
With many-colored gleam.
Along the walk, the pebbles
Are each a precious stone;
The grass is tasseled hoarfrost,
The clover jewel-sown.
Such sparkle, sparkle, sparkle
Fills all the frosty air,
Oh, can it be that darkness
Is ever anywhere!
3. November Is upon Us
November is upon us.
Thanksgiving’s nearly here.
I’ve never been more thankful than
the way I feel this year.
I’m thankful we have apple pie.
I’m thankful we have beans.
I’m thankful we have mashed potatoes,
yams, and salad greens.
But, most of all, I’m thankful that
my future isn’t murky.
My family’s vegetarian
and I am their pet turkey.
No sunshine, lots of rain.
No warm days, snow again.
No bugs or bees, No leaves on trees.
You must remember
This is November!
5. An Autumn Greeting
“Come,” said the Wind to the Leaves one day.
“Come over the meadow and we will play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold.
For summer is gone and the days grow cold.”
by Kathleen Pedersen
Leaves are falling.
We are thankful
For our friends.
NOVE — M — BER
Its November once again.
7. Fall Acrostic
by Leanne Guenther
Farmers bring in the harvest from the land.
Animals prepare for the winter chill.
Leaves fall from the trees — floating
Lightly to the ground.
by Elizabeth Coatsworth
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
and dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
and frost by the gate.
The fires burn
and the kettle sings,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
Happy November Poems
November doesn’t have to be a sad or melancholy season. Happy November poems celebrate the joys of the season, from the crisp autumn air to the warmth of family and friends.
1. The Crazy Woman
by Gwendolyn Brooks
I shall not sing a May song.
A May song should be gay.
I’ll wait until November
And sing a song of gray.
I’ll wait until November
That is the time for me.
I’ll go out in the frosty dark
And sing most terribly.
And all the little people
Will stare at me and say,
“That is the Crazy Woman
Who would not sing in May.
by Esther M. Clark
Summer was made for the wandering heart,
The changing beauty and wonderment
In the long, gray stretches of open road
With only the sky for a wayside tent.
Meadowlarks singing beyond the hedge,
Grass with the shimmer of dew still wet;
A noon day rest by the water’s edge
Summer was marvelous sweet; and yet:
November days and a bright wood fire;
A hearth and a home and the Heart’s Desire.
Summer was kind to the wayfaring one,
Luring and beckoning, on and on,
Through new and untraveled, unweary ways
From dawn till night and from night till dawn.
Orchard and field in a veil of rain,
Blossoming beauty on every bough;
What more could the heart of a man contain?
Summer was wondrously kind; but now:
November nights and the open fire;
A hearth and a home and the Heart’s Desire.
3. What the Birds Teach Us
by J. R. Eastwood
November now is here,
With skies of leaden hue,
And gloomy days and drear,
And winds that pierce us through.
And on the hedge the rose,
With leaves of tender green,
No more in beauty grows,
And frost and snow are seen.
But still the Birds contrive,
By hardship unsubdued,
To keep themselves alive,
And keenly seek their food.
And thus they teach us still,
However dark the day,
“That where there is a Will
There always is a Way.”
4. Autumn Valentine
by Dorothy Parker
In May my heart was breaking-
Oh, wide the wound, and deep!
And bitter it beat at waking,
And sore it split in sleep.
And when it came November,
I sought my heart, and sighed,
“Poor thing, do you remember?”
“What heart was that?” it cried.
5. How Happy I Was If I Could Forget
by Emily Dickinson
How happy I was if I could forget
To remember how sad I am
Would be an easy adversity
But the recollecting of Bloom
Keeps making November difficult
Till I who was almost bold
Lose my way like a little Child
And perish of the cold.
by Samuel Longfellow
Summer is gone; but summer days return;
The winds and frosts have stripped the woodlands bare,
Save for some clinging foliage here and there;
Then as if, pitiful, her heart did yearn,
Nature, the loving mother, lifts her urn
And pours the stream of life to her spent child:
The desert air grows strangely soft and mild,
And in his veins the long-fled ardors burn.
So, when we pass the mid-years of our lives,
And, sad or glad, we feel our work nigh done,
There come to us with sudden, swift returns,
The glow, the thrill, which show that youth survives,
That—though through softening mists—still shines the sun;
And in our souls the Indian summer burns.
November Poems about Love
While November is often associated with the changing of the seasons, it’s also a time for love and connection. November love poems can capture the warmth and intimacy of the season, exploring the many facets of love and affection.
1. A Divine Cascade
by Connie Marcum Wong
Splashing into fine mist—
I become one with the waterfall.
As droplets kiss my face
And enter my soul’s most sacred place.
Anointing me with love,
Sustaining all life forms on the Earth.
For each divine droplet;
A cascading veil of purity.
2. Winter’s Gateway
by John Watt
November, as the poets say –
autumn’s demise, winter’s gateway.
Its shortened days and longer nights
descending, death is in her sights:
leaves fall, as is their yearly fate,
while beasts prepare to hibernate.
November, as my lady lies
so silent, moving not her eyes –
with ashen skin, lips cold as death,
I wait in vain to feel her breath.
Her soul immortal, this I know,
yet in this life I’ll grieve her so.
3. Thy Silent Thoughts
by Robert Lindley
So beautiful are thy silent thoughts
I would watch thine eyes all day.
There is wonder in them, as the sun’s first flash
Through tumult of ocean spray;
In them the shining calm of upland pools
Mirrors the glory round,
And their shadows are the shadows of sweet flowers
Upon the summer ground.
So beautiful are thy silent thoughts
I would watch thine eyes all day;
More beauteous in their silence than the stars,
Than the silent stars, are they.
4. Thirst for Love
by Demetrios Trifiatis
My thirst for undying love I wished to quench
Drinking from the source of your enviable lips
Few droplets of nectar my soul was able to sip
That ample were though my craving to eclipse!
5. November Dreams
by Carolyn Devonshire
We lie ‘neath the oak
on a carpet of brown leaves
that lost their amber glory.
With eyes tightly shut,
we envision spring’s return—
hoping our love does the same.
6. November Love
In early November the air is clear
With many sounds of lovers near.
Not as the April birds that sing
Nor as the Sunday church bells ring.
But rather to the rhythm of rain,
The hearts of lovers beat again.
For it’s not true love that blooms in spring
Nor is it of love that birds do sing.
Rather of that love soon gone
And never seems to carry on.
That April love that all partake,
But very few ever make.
It’s all year long this false love swells
Till in November true love dwells.
In November the air is clear
With many sounds of lovers near.
Not as the April birds that sing
Nor as the Sunday church bells ring.
Rather to the rhythm of rain,
The hearts of lovers beat again.
It’s not true love that blooms in spring.
Nor is it love, that birds will sing.
But rather of that love soon gone
Which never seems to carry on.
That April love that all partake
And very few will ever make.
It’s all year long this false love swells
Till in November, true love dwells.
7. My Goddess I Am Your Missionary
by Silent One
Tell me how may I show you devotion?
No words are left in this dictionary.
Which fool said love is just an emotion?
My Goddess, I am your missionary.
The essence of time is not eternal,
but my adoration is evergreen.
You are a flower that is nocturnal.
Alive in every season – nature’s queen.
When adversity knocks upon your door,
let me soothe your misery and sorrow.
Does not matter if we are rich or poor,
I will provide a better tomorrow.
Come lose yourself in desire and passion.
Our romance will invent a new fashion.
8. November Comes, My Love
November, my love
is here again
and you are near
for warmth —
so many storms and seasons
we have weathered,
and now my arms
are leafless poplar
calloused from treacherous
bleached by salty floods
of rising tides —
furrows are sculpted
upon my face,
where streams flow
into endless rivers,
and yet behold,
a multitude of buttress dams
the sparkle of my laughter
above my nighttime
November comes, my love,
and you are near.
November is a month of transition, a time when we say goodbye to the warmth and abundance of autumn and prepare for the colder, darker months ahead.
Yet, as the November poems in this collection demonstrate, November is also a season of beauty, contemplation, and renewal.
Whether we’re savoring the last of the fall foliage, reflecting on the passing of time, or finding comfort in the company of loved ones, November offers us a chance to slow down and appreciate the present moment.
Through the power of language and imagery, these poems for November capture the essence of the season and remind us of the enduring power of poetry to move, inspire, and transform us.