Every quotation a nineteenth-century speaker or writer might want, grouped under its subject, with the author, the date and the source given as exactly as Hoyt could manage.
Months-November: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
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.
November woods are bare and still; November days are clear and bright; Each noon burns up the morning's chill, The morning's snow is gone by night; Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, As through the woods I reverent creep Watching all things lie "down to sleep."— HELEN HUNT JACKSON — Down to Sleep.
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.
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. All brilliant flowers are pale and dead And sadly droop to earth, While pansies chill in velvet robes Count life but little worth; But in these dark November days That wander wild and wet, Our thoughts are winged to summer hours On breath of mignonette.— ELIZA O. PIERSON — Mignonette.
In rattling showers dark November's rain, From every stormy cloud, descends amain.— RUSKIN — The Months.
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.
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,一 Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the desolate tree-top.— BAYARD TAYLOR — Home Pastorals.
November. I. December. Only the sea intoning, Only the wainscot-mouse, Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.— T. B. ALDRICH — December, 1863.
Wild was the day; the wintry sea Moaned sadly on New England's strand, When first the thoughtful and the free, Our fathers, trod the desert land.— BRYANT — The Twenty-second of
C. December. December drops no weak, relenting tear, By our fond Summer sympathies ensnared, Nor from the perfect circle of the year Can even Winter's crystal gems be spared.— C. P. CRANCH — December.
Shout now! The months with loud acclaim, Take up the cry and send it forth; May breathing sweet her Spring perfumes, November thundering from the North. With hands upraised, as with one voice, They join their notes in grand accord; Hail to December! say they all, It gave to Earth our Christ the Lord!— J. K. HOYT — The Meeting of the Months.