Echoes of November: Poems of Falling Leaves and Fading Light

November 21, 2019

As November takes its quiet hold, poets speak for the garden in tones of hushed reverence and thoughtful melancholy.

This month, often called the “Norway of the year” by Emily Dickinson, drapes the world in a mysterious foreignness, inviting gardeners to pause and watch the final acts of autumn unfold with both awe and gentle resignation.

It is also November.

The noons are more laconic, and the sunsets sterner and Gibraltar lights make the village foreign.

November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.

– Emily Dickinson

Dickinson’s enchanting metaphor reminds us of November’s subtle austerity—the way the day slows, the sun’s farewell grows sharper, and familiar scenes take on unfamiliar hues.

For gardeners, this is a time of watching and waiting, embracing the quietude as nature gathers her breath beneath the fading light.

How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

– Elsie N. Brady, Leaves

Elsie N. Brady conjures the whimsical dance of leaves—sometimes peaceful, sometimes wild—laying their vibrant farewell beneath naked branches.

There is an elegance in this seasonal shedding, an artistry in how leaves “wait, like children, for the snow.”

It is the gardener’s final curtain call, where fallen foliage becomes both swan song and blanket for the earth.

So dull and dark are the November days.
The lazy mist high up the evening curled,
And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze;
The place we occupy seems all the world.

– John Clare, November

John Clare’s somber reflection is a reminder of the deep stillness—sometimes almost oppressive—that November brings.

Yet, within this dimness lies profound beauty.

The “lazy mist” and “smoke and haze” cradle the garden’s quiet transformation, offering a moment for gardeners to slow, breathe, and witness the world distilled to its essential rhythms.

In the poetry of November, gardeners find both solace and inspiration.

It is a month of endings and anticipation—a bridge between the vivid spectacle of fall and the silent promise of winter’s rest.

To lovers of the earth, November is a whispered invitation: to appreciate the artful decline as a necessary prelude to renewal.