No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.
Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
The season for enjoying the fullness of life - partaking of the harvest, sharing the harvest with others, and reinvesting and saving portions of the harvest for yet another season of growth.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.
For the Fall of the year is more than three months bounded by an equinox and a solstice. It is a summing up without the finality of year's end.
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
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.
Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
By all these lovely tokens September days are here, With summer's best of weather And autumn's best of cheer.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe; And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruit and flowers.
Autumn is a season followed immediately by looking forward to spring.
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.
I love the fall. I love it because of the smells that you speak of; and also because things are dying, things that you don't have to take care of anymore, and the grass stops growing.
Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Nature is, above all, profligate. Don't believe them when they tell you how economical and thrifty nature is, whose leaves return to the soil. Wouldn't it be cheaper to leave them on the tree in the first place? This deciduous business alone is a radical scheme, the brainchild of a deranged manic-depressive with limitless capital. Extravagance! Nature will try anything once.
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