Deep in their roots all flowers keep the light.
Today I saw the dragonfly
Come from the wells where he did lie.
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk: from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;
Thro’ crofts and pastures wet with dew
A living flash of light he flew.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
We seldom think of November in terms of beauty or any other specially satisfying tribute. November is simply that interval between colorful and dark December. Then, nearly every year, come a few November days of clear, crisp weather that makes one wonder why November seldom gets its due.
There is the November sky, clean of summer dust, blown clear this day of the urban smog that so often hazes autumn….
There is the touch of November in the air, chill enough to have a slight tang, like properly aged cider. Not air that caresses, nor yet air that nips. Air that makes one breathe deeply and think of spring water and walk briskly.
The wild November comes at last
Beneath a veil of rain,
The night wind blows its folds aside—
Her face is full of pain.
The latest of her race, she takes
The Autumn’s vacant throne;
She has but one short moon to live,
And she must live alone.
We should enjoy this summer,
flower by flower, as if it were to be the
last one we’ll see.
‘Tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes!
Blue thou art, intensely blue; Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
Isaac Watts, Against Idleness