Ex Africa semper aliquid novi.
Always something new out of Africa.
Afrique est coustumiere toujours choses produire nouvelles et monstrueuses.
It is the custom of Africa always to produce
new and monstrous things.
Rabelais—Paniagruel. Bk. V. Ch. III.
Sehen Sie, die beste Neuigkeit verliert, sobald
sie Stadtmarehen wird.
Observe, the best of novelties palls when it
becomes town talk.
Schiller—Fiesco. III. 10.
What is valuable is not new, and what is new
is not valuable.
Daniel Webster. At Marshfield. Sept. 1,
1848. Criticism of the platform of the Free
Soil party. Phrase used in Edinburgh Re
view by Lord Brougham in an article on
the work of Dr. Thomas Young.
NOVEMBER
On my cornice linger the ripe black grapes unChildren 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 Colertdqe—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 Cooltdge—November.
Fie urjon 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.
My sorrow when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Robert Frost—My November Guest.
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.
The dead leaves their rich mosaics
Of olive and gold and brown
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
Through all the embowered town.
| author = Samuel Longfellow
| work = 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 LXVJII.
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,—
Hearing, perchance, the croak of a crow on the
desolate tree-top.
Bayard Taylor—Home Pastorals. November. I.
NUREMBURG
In the valley of the Pegnitz, where,
Across broad meadow-lands,
Rise the blue Franconian mountains,
Nuremburg, the ancient, stands.
Quaint old town of toil and traffic,
Quaint old town of art and song,
Memories haunt thy pointed gables,
Like the rooks that round thee throng.
