The stalks hum, the loose husks whisk skyward in half-playing swirls, and the wind hurries on… A tree tries to argue, bare limbs waving, but there is no detaining the wind. The wind that makes music in November corn is in a hurry. November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sear. I know that I have died before-once in November.
It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die. November always seems to me the Norway of the year. I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.Īutumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons. Welcome sweet November, the season of senses.Īutumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower. The mite which November contributes becomes equal in value to the bounty of July.ĭon’t wait until the fourth Thursday in November, to sit with family and friends to give thanks.
The thinnest yellow light of November is more warming and exhilarating than any wine they tell of. There comes a time when people get tired of being pushed out of the glittering sunlight of life’s July and left standing amid the piercing chill of an alpine November.
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