in Thoreau’s Journal:
The sunlight is peculiarly thin & yellow falling on the pale brown bleaching herbage of the fields at this season. There is no redness in it— This is November sunlight.
Much cold slate-colored cloud—bare twigs seen gleaming toward the light like gossamer—pure green of pines whose old leaves have fallen—reddish or yellowish brown oak leaves rustling on the hillsides—very pale brown bleaching—almost hoary fine grass or hay in the fields—akin to the frost which has killed it—& flakes of clear yellow sunlight falling on it here and there—such is November.
The fine grass killed by this frost & bleached till it is almost silvery has clothed the fields for a long time.
Now as in the Spring, we rejoice in sheltered and sunny places. Some corn is left out still even—