Designers want me to dress like Spring, in billowing things. I don't feel like Spring. I feel like a warm red Autumn.
If winter is slumber and spring is birth, and summer is life, then autumn rounds out to be reflection. It's a time of year when the leaves are down and the harvest is in and the perennials are gone. Mother Earth just closed up the drapes on another year and it's time to reflect on what's come before.
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
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.
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
A few days ago I walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.
Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.
Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?
Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
You ought to know that October is the first Spring month.
Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.
I loved autumn, the one season of the year that God seemed to have put there just for the beauty of it.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding corn.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;- Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Don’t you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms.
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