While cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
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.
Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place, and I can picture it after all these days.
How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.
The most beautiful carpet is the carpet made of autumn leaves!
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
Dancing of the autumn leaves on the surface of a lake is a dream we see when we are awake!
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like they're falling in love with the ground.
There is something incredibly nostalgic and significant about the annual cascade of autumn leaves.
If winter is slumber and spring is birth, and summer is life, then autumn rounds out to be reflection. It's a time of year when the leaves are down and the harvest is in and the perennials are gone. Mother Earth just closed up the drapes on another year and it's time to reflect on what's come before.
A human heart can never grow old if it takes a lively interest in the pairing of birds, the reproduction of flowers, and the changing tints of autumn leaves.
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!
Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.
Autumn leaves shower like gold, like rainbows, as the winds of change begin to blow, signaling the later days of autumn.
No lake is beautiful without the sky, without the mist or without the trees and the autumn leaves! No beauty is beautiful in itself!
The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter woods.
Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.
Fake friends are like autumn leaves, they're scattered everywhere.
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods, And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt, And night by night the monitory blast Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes, Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.
The stripped and shapely Maple grieves The ghosts of her Departed leaves. The ground is hard, As hard as stone. The year is old, The birds are flown.
It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.
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.
But you can't plead with autumn. No. The midnight wind stalked through the woods, hooted to frighten you, swept everything away for the approaching winter, whirled the leaves. ("The North")
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.
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