Seasons change in graveyards and A poem November Graveyard- by Sylvia Plath

Below is a newly discovered recent favorite of Plath s Poems. To me cemeteries are beautiful all year round, in fall when the leaves change, in winter when they seem harsh and abandoned , when the grass is dead and brown. They are lovely in spring when foliage blooms anew. I tend to spend lots of time in cemetery in the winter and fall months. Those are season I have always loved. When the vines cling to fences are bare in winter. when all the cemetery seems to be made of a limited color pallet in winter, greys, blues , amber's and browns. When greenery is slowly dieing away. In fall when the leaves are golden brown in some parts, or where lucky they are red and orange, creating vibrancy and beauty. I know when I visit in October the leaves are golden and fall has a gripping hold of the earth.  Come November the cemeteries take on a quite hue trying on a lighter pall of cloak as a companion for the fading seasons. Come December the grass is dead, brown and dull. but beauty still remains in all graveyards and cemeteries  I see. the statues seem reserved as winter closes in, waiting for brighter times to come.

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men's cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet:
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare
Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
Whatever lost ghosts flare,
Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
Rave on the leash of the starving mind
Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air. 

Sylvia Plath 1932-1963

The grass is dead and shadows are long.

Statues are reserved and lie in wait for winter.

The cemetery is starting to say goodbye to its greenery here in November and October.

Mugg cemetery, its clinging vine on the Helms family plot

Preston Bend cemetery in the blanket of red fall

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men's cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet:
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare
Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
Whatever lost ghosts flare,
Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
Rave on the leash of the starving mind
Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.
- See more at: http://www.neuroticpoets.com/plath/poem/graveyard/#sthash.tICGxGmR.dpuf