It was a Sunday afternoon, wet and cheerless; and a duller spectacle this earth of ours has not to show than a rainy Sunday in London.
It was very gray, very dreary. Everything was still rationed when I first saw the United States in 1951. I went over to visit my sister who was a war bride.
November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.
The day is dark and cold and dreary; it rains, and the wind is never weary.
The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play. So we sat in the house. All that cold, cold, wet day.
Fantastic! Right in the middle of that long stretch between Christmas and Spring Break, your coats are getting dirty, everything's dark, dingy - what a great time for a movie!
It looks like a bothering sort of day.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; It rains, and the wind in never weary; The vine still clings to the mouldering wall, But at every gust the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary.
