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| Hoyt & Roberts, comps. Hoyt’s New Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations. 1922. |
| November |
| On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes ungathered; Children fill the groves with the echoes of their glee, Gathering tawny chestnuts, and shouting when beside them Drops the heavy fruit of the tall black-walnut tree. Bryant—The Third of November. (1861). | 1 |
| When shrieked The bleak November winds, and smote the woods, And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades That met above the merry rivulet Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed Like old companions in adversity. Bryant—A Winter Piece. L. 22. | 2 |
| The dusky waters shudder as they shine, The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define, And the gaunt woods, in ragged scant array, Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. Hartley Coleridge—November. | 3 |
| Dry leaves upon the wall, Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape, A single frosted cluster on the grape Still hangs—and that is all. Susan Coolidge—November. | 4 |
| Fie upon thee, November! thou dost ape The airs of thy young sisters, * * * thou hast stolen The witching smile of May to grace thy lip, And April’s rare capricious loveliness Thou’rt trying to put on! Julia C. R. Dorr—November. | 5 |
| My sorrow when she’s here with me, Thinks these dark days of autumn rain Are beautiful as days can be; She loves the bare, the withered tree; She walks the sodden pasture lane. Robert Frost—My November Guest. | 6 |
| No park—no ring—no afternoon gentility— No company—no nobility— No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease. No comfortable feel in any member— No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November! Hood—November. | 7 |
| The dead leaves their rich mosaics Of olive and gold and brown Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, Through all the embowered town. Samuel Longfellow—November. | 8 |
| Now Neptune’s sullen month appears, The angry night cloud swells with tears, And savage storms infuriate driven, Fly howling in the face of heaven! Now, now, my friends, the gathering gloom With roseate rays of wine illume: And while our wreaths of parsley spread Their fadeless foliage round our head, We’ll hymn th’ almighty power of wine, And shed libations on his shrine! Moore—Odes of Anacreon. Ode LXVIII. | 9 |
| The wild November come 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. R. H. Stoddard—November. | 10 |
| Wrapped in his sad-colored cloak, the Day, like a Puritan, standeth Stern in the joyless fields, rebuking the lingering color,— Dying hectic of leaves and the chilly blue of the asters,— Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top. Bayard Taylor—Home Pastorals. November. I. | 11 |
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