eleventh month in the Julian and Gregorian calendars
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November is the eleventh month of the year in the Julian and Gregorian Calendars and one of four months with the length of 30 days. November retained its name (from the Latin novem meaning "nine") when January and February were added to the Roman calendar. November is a month of spring in the Southern Hemisphere and autumn in the Northern Hemisphere. Therefore November in the Southern Hemisphere is the seasonal equivalent of May in the Northern Hemisphere and vice versa.

Quotes edit

  • November's night is dark and drear,
    The dullest month of all the year.

Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations edit

Quotes reported in Hoyt's New Cyclopedia Of Practical Quotations (1922), p. 562.
  • 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.
  • 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.
  • 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.
  • 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.
  • 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!
  • 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.
  • 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,
  • The dead leaves their rich mosaics
    Of olive and gold and brown
    Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
    Through all the embowered town.
  • 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!
  • 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.
  • 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.

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