We seldom think of November in terms of beauty or any other specially satisfying tribute. November is simply that interval between colorful and dark December. Then, nearly every year, come a few November days of clear, crisp weather that makes one wonder why November seldom gets its due.
There is the November sky, clean of summer dust, blown clear this day of the urban smog that so often hazes autumn….
There is the touch of November in the air, chill enough to have a slight tang, like properly aged cider. Not air that caresses, nor yet air that nips. Air that makes one breathe deeply and think of spring water and walk briskly.
The wild November comes 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.
We should enjoy this summer,
flower by flower, as if it were to be the
last one we’ll see.
‘Tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes!
Blue thou art, intensely blue; Flower, whence came thy dazzling hue?
How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower.
Isaac Watts, Against Idleness
Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
Luke 12:27, King James Bible
“A flash of harmless lightning, A mist of rainbow dyes, The burnished sunbeams brightening From flower to flower he flies.”
“Spring would not be spring without bird songs.”
– Francis M. Chapman