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Months-October: Quotations from Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations
October. October turned my maple's leaves to gold; The most are gone now; here and there one lingers; Soon these will slip from out the twig's weak hold, Like coins between a dying miser's fingers.— T. B. ALDRICH — Maple Leaves.
O'er hill and field October's glories fade; O'er hill and field the blackbirds southward fly; The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, Where naked branches make a fitful shade, And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie.— GEORGE ARNOLD — October.
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death.— BRYANT — October.
The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mould The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough Drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.— BRYANT — October, 1866.
October's tinted days have fled; Both welcomes and farewells been said; Make glad our threshold with your tread, Sweet Friends, once more! "Salve!" is writ, beneath, o'erhead, An open door.— ABRAHAM COLES — The Microcosm and
other Poems. P. 167. October's gold is dim-the forests rot, The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day Is wrapped in damp.— DAVID GRAY — In the Shadows.
Sonnet XIX. Is it the shrewd October wind Brings the tears into her eyes? Does it blow so strong that she must fetch Her breath in sudden sighs?— W. D. HOWELLS — Gone.
Yellow leaves, how fast they flutter-woodland hollows thickly strewing, Where the wan October sunbeams scantly in the mid-day win, While the dim gray clouds are drifting, and in saddened hues imbuing All without and all within!— JEAN INGELOW — On the Deaths of Three
Children. Bending above the spicy woods which blaze, Arch skies so blue they flash, and hold the sun Immeasurably far; the waters run Too slow, so freighted are the river-ways With gold of elms and birches from the maze Of forests.— HELEN HUNT JACKSON — Verses.
October. October's foliage yellows with his cold.— RUSKIN — The Months.
No clouds are in the morning sky, The vapors hug the stream, Who says that life and love can die In all this northern gleam? At every turn the maples burn, The quail is whistling free, The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs Are dropping for you and me. Ho! hillyho! heigh O! Hillyho! In the clear October morning.— E. C. STEDMAN — Autumn Song.
And close at hand, the basket stood With nuts from brown October's wood. C.— WHITTIER — Snow-bound.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.