Quotes About Autumn

As the days grow short, some faces grow long. But not mine. Every autumn, when the wind turns cold and darkness comes early, I am suddenly happy. It's time to start making soup again.

There is something in the autumn that is native to my blood- Touch of manner, hint of mood; And my heart is like a rhyme, With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time.

Deep inside, we're still the boys of autumn, that magic time of the year that once swept us onto America's fields.

Youth is like spring, an over praised season more remarkable for biting winds than genial breezes. Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

And autumn ain't so shabby for wow, either. The colors are broccoli and flame and fox fur. The tang is apples, death, and wood smoke. The rot smells faintly of grapes, of fermentation, of one element being changed alchemically into another, and the air is moist and you sleep under two down comforters in a cold room. The trails are not dusty anymore, and you get to wear your favorite sweaters.

The trees in the small copses of wood were just beginning to turn color. The chestnuts like liquid amber deepening here and there; willows still trailed streamers of green. The wild roses in the hedges were long finished, and they showed bunches of orange hips where flowers had been.

Nothing is more unlovely than a fly, and it properly belongs in the list of infuriating things. Flies aren't big enough to make them worth bothering to hate, but just the way they settle all over everything in autumn, and their damp little feet when they land on your face … And I hate the way the word is used in people's names.2

Every leaf knows that time is very short. All life must be lived before the autumn comes!

And he that will to bed go soberFalls with the leaf in October.

every time I look at you autumn leaves come in between - does it matter they're the color of your hair - or they still fall in my memory?...

Most autumns, the water is low from the long dry summer, and you have to get out from time to time and wade, leading or dragging your boat through trickling shallows from one pool to the long channel-twisted pool below, hanging up occasionally on shuddering bars of quicksand, making six or eight miles in a day's lazy work, but if you go to the river at all, you tend not to mind. You are not in a hurry there; you learned long since not to be.

Methinks I see the sunset light flooding the river valley, the western hills stretching to the horizon, overhung with trees gorgeous and glowing with the tints of autumn—a mighty flower garden, blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, Frost...

The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

Methinks I see the sunset light flooding the river valley, the western hills stretching to the horizon, overhung with trees gorgeous and glowing with the tints of autumn -- a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

Bring forth the raisins and the nuts- Tonight All-Hallows' Spectre struts Along the moonlit way.

In this autumn of 1919, in which I write, we are at the dead season of our fortunes.

It was the golden time of year. Every day the leaves grew brighter, the air sharper, the grass more brilliant. The sunsets seemed to expand and melt and stretch for hours, and the brick facades glowed pink, and everything blue got bluer. How many perfect autumns did a person get? Why did I seem always to be in the wrong place, listening to the wrong music?

It was the golden time of year. Every day the leaves grew brighter, the air sharper, the grass more brilliant. The sunsets seemed to expand and melt and stretch for hours, and the brick façades glowed pink, and everything got bluer. How many perfect autumns did a person get?

It had been the quintessential autumn night, cool but not yet cold, the air smelling of wood smoke and leaves.

A whirl of color, patches like autumn leaves tossed in a wind, and when Will squinted right, knowing what he was looking for, he could make out a slender man huddled under a black velvet hood, his shoulders aswirl with a cloak that caught the light through the leaded windows in all colors and none. When Will looked at him directly, he seemed to fade into transparency and shadows.

In those places where the gold and auburn leaves still cling to the trees and brushes, the dappled shadows moving underneath them formed diminished crescents, layer on layer of moving images.

Some people fall head over heels. Other people begin to fall without even knowing it—love grows like a spring flower beneath last autumn's leaves and catches them by surprise.

The magic of autumn has seized the countryside; now that the sun isn't ripening anything it shines for the sake of the golden age; for the sake of Eden; to please the moon for all I know.