Seasonal writing.

This brisk air of late lends itself readily to writing. I can see why there is so much poetry composed on the subject of the seasons... I'm thinking about this at the moment because I'm writing a paper on how winter is handled in the poetry of a few English Romantics - including one of my new faves, John Clare. So here's an appropriate poem written by Clare, the desperately poor peasant poet (with a tendency to misspell and leave out punctuation), called "Written in November":

Autumn I love thy latter end to view
In cold novembers day so bleak and bare
When like lifes dwindld thread worn nearly thro
Wi lingering pottering pace and head bleachd bare
Thou like an old man bids the world adieu
I love thee well and often when a child
Have roamd the bare brown heath a flower to find
And in the moss clad vale and wood bank wild
Have cropt the little bell flowers paley blue
That trembling peept the sheltering bush behind
When winnowing north winds cold and blealy blew
How have I joyd wi dithering hands to find
Each fading flower and still how sweet the blast
Woud bleak novembers hour Restore the joy thats past

When one's shivering out there, one's aware.