November

A gray sickbed month in which we can be thankful for four long weeks of ghosts, mists and melancholy and a penultimate step toward the grave:

November, n. The eleventh twelfth of a weariness.

- Ambrose Bierce (The Devil's Dictionary)

No!

No sun--no moon!
No morn--no noon!
No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day--
No sky--no earthly view--
No distance looking blue--
No road--no street--no "t'other side this way"--
No end to any Row--
No indications where the Crescents go--
No top to any steeple--
No recognitions of familiar people--
No courtesies for showing 'em--
No knowing 'em!
No traveling at all--no locomotion--
No inkling of the way--no notion--
"No go" by land or ocean--
No mail--no post--
No news from any foreign coast--
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!

- Thomas Hood

"That month is always, I think, a dreary one in the country. It has neither the brilliant tints of October, nor the cozy jollity of mid-winter with its Christmas joys to alleviate it."

(Sophia Maltravers on November in John Meade Falkner's The Lost Stradivarius).