I loved autumn, the one season of the year that God seemed to have put there just for the beauty of it.
Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence. Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.
To be interested in the changing seasons is a happier state of mind than to be hopelessly in love with spring.
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter woods.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.
Autumn is as joyful and sweet as an untimely end.
You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person died for no reason.
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours. I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce.
Gardening imparts an organic perspective on the passage of time.
The wind that makes music in November corn is in a hurry. The stalks hum, the loose husks whisk skyward in half-playing swirls, and the wind hurries on.... A tree tries to argue, bare limbs waving, but there is no detaining the wind.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of spring.
In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October, when the trees are bare to the mild heavens, and the red leaves bestrew the road, and you can feel the breath of winter, morning and evening - no days so calm, so tenderly solemn, and with such a reverent meekness in the air.
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.
All in November's soaking mist We stand and prune the naked tree, While all our love and interest Seem quenched in the blue-nosed misery.
The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.
Our judgment ripens; our imagination decays. We cannot at once enjoy the flowers of the Spring of life and the fruits of its Autumn.
Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.
Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.
There ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.
It is only the farmer who faithfully plants seeds in the Spring, who reaps a harvest in the Autumn.
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
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