Autumn Quotes
The best sayings about Autumn that you can share on Instagram, Pinterest, Facebook and other social networks!
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It was one of those days you sometimes get latish in the autumn when the sun beams, the birds toot, and there is a bracing tang in the air that sends the blood beetling briskly through the veins.
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I put quite a few trees in last autumn. A lot of silver birch and a couple of native trees - just generally doing gardening, putting plants in and hedges in. It takes quite a lot of time and I love it.
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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.
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Spring blossoms are fairy tales, autumn leaves are tragic dramas.
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The falling leaves drift by the window The autumn leaves of red and gold.... I see your lips, the summer kisses The sunburned hands, I used to hold Since you went away, the days grow long And soon I'll hear ol' winter's song. But I miss you most of all my darling, When autumn leaves start to fall.
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The President needs me at the White House. It's autumn, you know, and the leaves need raking.
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There is a part of me that will forever want to be walking under autumn leaves, carrying a briefcase containing the works of Shakespeare and Yeats and a portable chess set. I will pass an old tree under which once on a summer night I lay on the grass with a fragrant young woman and we quoted e.e. cummings back and forth.
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On a bare branch a crow is perched - autumn evening
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Autumn is full of leave-taking.
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Autumn's the mellow time.
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He governed as if he felt predestined to never die
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Listen to the Water-Mill: Through the live-long day How the clicking of its wheel Wears the hours away! Languidly the Autumn wind Stirs the forest leaves, From the field the reapers sing Binding up their sheaves: And a proverb haunts my mind As a spell is cast, "The mill cannot grind With the water that is past.
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(Ravic speaking of a butterfly caught in the Louvre) In the morning it would search for flowers and life and the light honey of blossoms and would not find them and later it would fall asleep on millennial marble, weakened by then, until the grip of the delicate, tenacious feet loosened and it fell, a thin leaf of premature autumn.
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Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
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It looked like the world was covered in a cobbler crust of brown sugar and cinnamon.
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That country where it is always turning late in the year. That country where the hills are fog and the rivers are mist; where noons go quickly, dusks and twilights linger, and midnights stay. That country composed in the main of cellars, sub-cellars, coal-bins, closets, attics, and pantries faced away from the sun. That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts. Whose people passing at night on the empty walks sound like rain.
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The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.
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Sonnet XXV Before I loved you, love, nothing was my own: I wavered through the streets, among Objects: Nothing mattered or had a name: The world was made of air, which waited. I knew rooms full of ashes, Tunnels where the moon lived, Rough warehouses that growled 'get lost', Questions that insisted in the sand. Everything was empty, dead, mute, Fallen abandoned, and decayed: Inconceivably alien, it all Belonged to someone else - to no one: Till your beauty and your poverty Filled the autumn plentiful with gifts.
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A grub in filth is dirty, but it changes into a cicada and sips dew in the autumn breeze. Rotting plants have no luster, but they turn into foxfire and glow in the summer moonlight. So we know that purity emerges from impurity, and light is born from darkness.
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I know people, I know towns, farms, hills and rivers and rocks, I know how the sun at sunset in autumn falls on the side of a certain plowland in the hills; but what is the sense of giving a boundary to all that, of giving a name and ceasing to love where the name ceases to apply?
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Autumn resumes the land, ruffles the woods with smoky wings, entangles them.
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I love the autumn for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well.
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Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
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There ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.
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October, here's to you. Here's to the heady aroma of the frost-kissed apples, the winey smell of ripened grapes, the wild-as-the-wind smell of hickory nuts and the nostalgic whiff of that first wood smoke.
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The dinner-hour is the summer of the day: full of sunshine, I grant; but not like the mellow autumn of supper.
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I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know. Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven't said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing.
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The autumn hill gathers the remaining light, A flying bird chases after its companion. The green color is bright And brings me into the moment, like a sunset mist that has no fixed place.
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Fall is my favorite season in Los Angeles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.
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And getting married this autumn was certainly an additional incentive to spend rather more time in England.
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Top Authors
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E. G. Marshall Actor -
Edgerrin James American football running back -
Edward Benson Archbishop of Canterbury -
E. J. W. Barber Author -
Dustin Pedroia Baseball player -
Duane Gish Biochemist -
Edwin Diamond Columnist
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Ed Wynn Comedian -
Dov Frohman Electrical engineer -
Eduardo Saverin Entrepreneur -
Duke of Wellington Former First Lord of the Treasury -
Edward Everett Former U.S. Senator -
Edward Jesse Historian
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Eben Moglen Law professor -
Edward Coke Lord Chief Justice of England and Wales -
Ed King Musician -
Ed McClanahan Novelist -
Edward Young Poet -
Dustin Lance Black Screenwriter -
Edward Schillebeeckx Theologian -
Douglas Kent Hall Writer -
E. L. Konigsburg Writer -
Edmar Mednis Writer -
Edmund Crispin Writer
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