Quotes About Autumn

I ride over my beautiful ranch. Betwen my legs is a beautiful horse. The air is wine. The grapes on a score of rolling hills are red with autumn flame. Across Sonoma Mountain, wisps of sea fog are stealing. The afternoon sun smolders in the drowsy sky. I have everything to make me glad I am alive.

Laura took them into her arms. The great fans of orange tracery seemed to her even more beautiful than the chrysanthemums, for they had been given to her, they were a surprise. She sniffed. They smelt of woods, of dark rustling woods like the wood to whose edge she came so often in the country of her autumn imagination.

We pretended she'd only gotten lost in the colors of fall. Piper

Ma?o wychodzisz z domu - powiedzia?. - A tak. Jesie? mnie rozstraja. - Depresyjka? - Co? w tym rodzaju.

Stray birds of the summer come to my window to sing and fly away. And yellow leaves of autumn, which have no songs, flutter and fall there with a sigh. O TROUPE of little vagrants of the world, leave your footprints in my words . . .

Fiery colors begin their yearly conquest of the hills, propelled by the autumn winds. Fall is the artist.

Dry autumn leaves revolved in your soul.

I love autumn, Emily said to me. It wins you over with its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

Lanny enjoyed this season of mist and mellow fruitfulness, and observed with the eyes of an art connoisseur the thatched cottages and moldy-looking roofs, the hedges, the winding roads

Redder than a turkey's rump in poke berry time.

Beautiful. Autumn-raw. She must be a witch of some kind

La otra anciana se llamaba Sa', que significa «estrella», porque su madre miraba el cielo nocturno de otoño, concentrada en las lejanas estrellas, para distraerse de los dolores del parto.

the sprawling branches of the maple tree were plush with autumn.

the trees were still dressed in their party colors

Now winds are wild, and sere leaves fall; A dying glory mantles all; I sit and watch the tears of rain Steal slowly down the window-pane. The wailing of the Autumn blast Stirs many a dead leaf of the Past Within my soul; I seem to hear The wan lips of the dying year, Mournfully, oh, mournfully, Chant a low, sad melody!

What a wonderful day it was to get into the outdoors. The sky above the tree branches was blue, dappled by fast-running clouds shifting the autumn sunlight between sharp spangles of yellow light and an amber haze.

Beauty for some provides escape, who gain a happiness in eyeing the gorgeous buttocks of the ape or Autumn sunsets exquisitely dying.

Truly, Autumn is my season," the scarlet beast chorted. "Spring and Summer and Winter all begin with such late letters! But Autumn and Fall, I have loved best, because they are best to love.

Squeeze your eyes closed, as tight as you can, and think of all your favorite autumns, crisp and perfect, all bound up together like a stack of cards. That is what it is like, the awful, wonderful brightness of Fairy colors. Try to smell the hard, pale wood sending up sharp, green smoke into the afternoon. To feel the mellow, golden sun on your skin, more gentle and cozier and more golden than even the light of your favorite reading nook at the close of the day.

There is a place, September, oh, very far from Pandemonium. A place where it is always autumn, where there is always cider and pumpkin pie, where leaves are always orange and fresh-cut wood is always burning and it is always, just always Halloween.

Autumn is the very soul of metamorphosis, a time when the world is poised at the door of winter - which is the door of death - but has not yet fallen. It is a world of contradictions: a time of harvest and plenty but also of cold and hardship. Here we dwell in the midst of life, but we know most keenly that all things must pass away and shrivel. Autumn turns the world from one thing into another. The year is seasoned and wise but not yet decrepit or senile.

Autumn has a hungry heart - September is the beginning of death.

In a very real way, television is the new mythos. It defines the world, reinterprets it. The seasons do not change because Persephone goes underground. They change because new episodes air, because sweeps week demands conflagrations and ritual deaths. The television series rises slowly, arcs, descends into hiatus, and rises again with the bright, burning autumn.