In the past few days, I shared poems by Dickinson that include the word “November” along with one poem given the title “November” by Mabel Loomis Todd. Today, I have two other “November” poems, but this time they’re not by Dickinson. I have one by Robert Frost and one by E. E. Cummings.
Frost’s poem, “My November Guest,” employs the use of the literary element called an “apostrophe” – not the punctuation mark to signify a possessive noun or a contraction, but the device whereby a speaker addresses an inanimate object or abstract quality. In this poem, the speaker talks directly to his “Sorrow,” who “Thinks these dark days of autumn rain / Are beautiful as days can be.”
Do you love the “bare November days / Before the coming of the snow”? If so, you’ll appreciate Frost’s work.
Frost’s poem, “My November Guest,” employs the use of the literary element called an “apostrophe” – not the punctuation mark to signify a possessive noun or a contraction, but the device whereby a speaker addresses an inanimate object or abstract quality. In this poem, the speaker talks directly to his “Sorrow,” who “Thinks these dark days of autumn rain / Are beautiful as days can be.”
Do you love the “bare November days / Before the coming of the snow”? If so, you’ll appreciate Frost’s work.
 | In the other poem, by Cummings, the speaker is addressing a child – the speaker’s past self? i.e., “little i” – and perhaps recalling a smple childhood memory, watching a sunset from a window. Then, a wonderful epiphany emerges at the end, “that if day / has to become night / this is a beautiful way.”  |
Bonus poem! The marvelous ending to Cummings’ lines called to mind a poem by Dickinson, not about November but about sunsets, “The largest fire ever known.” However, in Dickinson’s poem, the childlike wonder and awe found in Cummings’ “who are you,little i,” is now replaced with the indifference and detachment of adults. Over and over again, the sunset brings no surprise, no amazement.
 | Well, that brought the room down, huh? We can’t end on this note! So here’s a second bonus poem, Walt Whitman’s “Song at Sunset,” a celebration of the beauty and wonder of the natural world and the human experience. Whitman’s poem opens with these lines: |
Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me!
Hour prophetic—hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat—you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
Hour prophetic—hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat—you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.
It ends with this:
O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration.
The complete poem is HERE.
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