Quotes About Autumn

The day of the worst thing in the world was long and hot and bright, packed so full of summer autumn seeped out through the stitches.

Marya watched from the upper floor as once again the birds gathered in the great oak tree, sniping and snapping for the last autumn nuts, stolen from squirrels and hidden in bark-cracks, which every winged creature knows are the most bitter of all nuts, like old sorrows sitting heavy on the tongue.

As that ripe summer turned to autumn, the sunlight cooled to a slantwise gleam, bronzing the beach grass and setting the beetle-bung trees afire.

Your hands bring a breath of inviolable distances as elusive as ideas. And the ambiguous sway of the moon, of the gentlest, if you rest your eyes on me, touches the spirit. You're the woman who passes by like a leaf. And bequeaths an autumn flame to the trees.

Glib tongues frill up their hash of knowledge for mankind in polished speeches that are no more than vaporous winds rustling the fallen leaves in autumn.

A falling leaf in autumn allows you to see, the beauty of releasing things that do not serve you anymore.

China's Dragon Boat Festival in June honors Qu Yuan, an official who drowned himself in 278 B.C. to protest corruption in the Spring and Autumn Period.

Then autumn comes, with its first flush of youth gone, but ripe and mellow, midway in time between youth and age, with sprinkled grey showing on the temples.

Besides the autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days A little this side of the snow And that side of the haze...

The days may not be so bright and balmy—yet the quiet and melancholy that linger around them is fraught with glory. Over everything connected with autumn there lingers some golden spell—some unseen influence that penetrates the soul with its mysterious power.

It is a delightful pastime to sit in the pleasant sunshine of autumn, and gazing from this little spot of free earth over such a landscape, let the imagination luxuriate amid the thrilling associations of the scene!

[T]here is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky...

You will find the blue hills... with the autumnal shadows silently sleeping on them, and there will be a glory lingering round the day, so you'll know autumn has been here; and the setting sun will tell you...

[A]utumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season which has drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings and quotations...

The rich death-colours of autumn were like an infinitely sad melody, like a sad song of unavailing regret; but in those passionate tints, in the red and the gold of the apples, in the varied hue of the fallen leaves, there was still something which forbade one to forget that in the death and decay of nature there is always the beginning of other life.

Around and around the house the leaves fall thick—but never fast, for they come circling down with a dead lightness that is sombre and slow. Let the gardener sweep and sweep the turf as he will, and press the leaves into full barrows, and wheel them off, still they lie ankle-deep.

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away; Lengthen night and shorten day! Every leaf speaks bliss to me, Fluttering from the autumn tree...

shorter days seem a little ominous shadows are becoming autumn'ish

Autumn breathes in golden sunshine and breathes out a frosty chill.

We are having such lovely weather — the air is sweet and still — now and then a gay leaf falling... a thousand little painters are tingeing hill and dale... autumn is most beautiful...

Thanksgiving is the winding up of autumn. The leaves are off the trees, except here and there on a beech or an oak; there is nothing left on the boughs but a few nuts and empty birds' nests. The earth looks desolate, and it will be a comfort to have the snow on the ground, and to hear the merry jingle of the sleigh-bells.

The edge of autumn frosts with winter's chilled breath.

Autumn leaves blaze their swan song of colors and wait for Winter to wipe the slate clean.

Wild is the music of the autumnal wind Among the faded woods; but these blithe notes Strike the deserted to the heart;—I speak Of what I know, and what we feel within.