Best 748 quotes in «autumn quotes» category

Spring is the season of hope, and autumn is that of memory.

Spring and autumn are inconsiderable events in a landscape compared with the shadows of a cloud.

Spring blossoms are fairy tales, autumn leaves are tragic dramas.

Spring is the fresh green of young corn and the pink blush of blossoms. Autumn contrasts the yellowed foilage with violet hues. Winter is the white of snow against its black forms ... Summer is the contrast of blues and the golden bronze of the corn.

Spring is strictly sentimental, self-regarding; but I burn more careless in the autumn bonfire.

Summer fades; the first cold, Northern air Sweeps, like hatred, through still days - The August heat now gone elsewhere, To Southern, bird-filled coasts and bays; Amid constricting vales of cloud, A pale and liquid Autumn sun That once beat down on an empty plain And may again. And may again.

Summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.

Summer's the same, autumn is even more extreme. Then winter is when you sort of condense all of your ideas. You process all these things and you try to look for new concepts. In that sense, your intuition is in hibernation. What you fill up is your imagination; you fill up your memories there.

Sunlight is like the breath of life to the pomp of autumn.

Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life's golden fruit is shed.

Swinging on delicate hinges the autumn leaf almost off the stem.

That country whose people are autumn people, thinking only autumn thoughts.

That it would always be summer and autumn, and you always courting me, and always thinking as much of me as you have done through the past summertime!

The autumn hill gathers the remaining light, A flying bird chases after its companion. The green color is bright And brings me into the moment, like a sunset mist that has no fixed place.

The American spring is by no means so agreeable as the American autumn; both move with faltering step, and slow; but this lingering pace, which is delicious in autumn, is most tormenting in the spring.

The Autumn seems to cry for thee,Best lover of the Autumn-days!

The autumn air is clear, The autumn moon is bright. Fallen leaves gather and scatter, The jackdaw perches and starts anew. We think of each other- when will we meet? This hour, this night, my feelings are hard.

The autumn wind is a Raider, / Pillaging just for fun; / He'll knock you around, / And upside down, / And laugh when he's conquered and won.

The approach of night The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthen'd ev'ry shade.

The aster has not wasted spring and summer because it has not blossomed. It has been all the time preparing for what is to follow, and in autumn it is the glory of the field, and only the frost lays it low. So there are many people who must live forty or fifty years, and have the crude sap of their natural dispositions changed and sweetened before the blossoming time can come; but their lives have not been wasted.

The ascent of any route begins, in dreams at least, the autumn before. Our minds ring, involuntarily, with the alluring names of mountains, aiguilles, faces and ridges, Is it the name itself which is so tempting, or the picture we have of the mountain itself, or does the appeal come from our feeling of the actual process of climbing? All of us have our reasons, innumerable, personal and complex. From many points of view a climb is a challenge we must meet.

The autumn breeze rises on the shore at Fukiage- and those white chrysanthemums are they flowers? or not? or only breakers on the beach?

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

The best kiss in nature is not between Romeo and Juliet, but it is between a dying autumn leaf and a shiny water drop!

THE autumn of 1850 brought an event freighted with deep significance to me. My mother died.

The autumn wind is a pirate. Blustering in from sea with a rollicking song he sweeps along swaggering boisterously. His face is weather beaten, he wears a hooded sash with a silver hat about his head... The autumn wind is a Raider, pillaging just for fun.

The birds laugh loud and long together When Fashion's followers speed away At the first cool breath of autumn weather. Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay! When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over Both look their passion through sun-kissed space, As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover Might each gaze into the other's face.

The bowed head, the buried face. She is silent, she will never speak, never forgive, never reach a hand, never leave this frozen present tense. All waits, suspended. Suspended the autumn trees, the autumn sky, anonymous people. A blackbird, poor fool, sings out of season from the willows by the lake. A flight of pigeons over the houses; fragments of freedom, hazard, an anagram made flesh. And somewhere the stinging smell of burning leaves.

The day becomes more solemn and serene When noon is past; there is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been! Thus let thy power, which like the truth Of nature on my passive youth Descended, to my onward life supply Its calm, to one who worships thee, And every form containing thee, Whom, SPIRIT fair, thy spells did bind To fear himself, and love all human kind.

The circus looks abandoned and empty. But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.

The coming and going of the seasons give us more than the spring times, summers, autumns, and winters of our lives. It reflects the coming and going of the circumstances of our lives like the glassy surface of a pond that shows our faces radiant with joy or contorted with pain.

The hush comes with the deepening of Autumn; but it comes gradually. Our ears are attuned to it, day by quieter day. But even now, if one awakens in the deep darkness of the small hours, one can hear it, a foretaste of Winter silence. It’s a little painful now, and a little lonely because it is so strange.

The fallen autumn leaves were slick beneath Bod's feet, and the mists blurred the edges of the world. Nothing was as clean-cut as he had thought it, a few minutes before.

The dinner-hour is the summer of the day: full of sunshine, I grant; but not like the mellow autumn of supper.

The gray-green stretch of sandy grass,Indefinitely desolate;A sea of lead, a sky of slate;Already autumn in the air, alas!One stark monotony of stone,The long hotel, acutely white,Against the after-sunset lightWithers gray-green, and takes the grass's tone.

The harvested fields bathed in the autumn mist speak of God and his goodness far more vividly than any human lips.

The Indian Summer, the dead Summer's soul.

The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter woods.

The lands are lit with all the autumn blaze of golden-rod, and everywhere the purple asters nod and bend and wave and flit.

The leaves fall patiently Nothing remembers or grieves The river takes to the sea The yellow drift of leaves.

The learned should be vigorous and diligent, but they should also be free-spirited. If they are too rigorous and austere, they have the death-dealing quality of autumn but lack the life-giving quality of spring. How can they develop people then?

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

The Mississippi Delta is not always dark with rain. Some autumn mornings, the sun rises over Moon Lake, or Eagle, or Choctaw, or Blue, or Roebuck, all the wide, deep waters of the state, and when it does, its dawn is as rosy with promise and hope as any other.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

The morning air of the pasture turned steadily cooler. Day by day, the bright golden leaves of the birches turned more spotted as the first winds of winter slipped between the withered branches and across the highlands toward the southeast. Stopping in the center of the pasture, I could hear the winds clearly. No turning back, they pronounced. The brief autumn was gone.

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.

The most beautiful carpet is the carpet made of autumn leaves!

The mystery of God touches us - or does not - in the smallest details: giving a strawberry, with love; receiving a touch, with love; sharing the snapdragon red of an autumn sunset, with love.

Then the room relaxed in cheers and babbling, and she turned in his arms to kiss him hard and cling to him, and he thought perhaps it didn't matter that they faced in opposite directions - so long as they faced each other.' Roger Wakefield {Drums Of Autumn}

Then came October, full of merry glee.