Are the days of winter sunshine just as sad for you, too? When it is misty, in the evenings, and I am out walking by myself, it seems to me that the rain is falling through my heart and causing it to crumble into ruins.
— Gustave Flaubert
Off-limits Fall Season quotations
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together.
For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.
The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all. The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.
Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.
In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfies See the smoke trail! Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, the grey smoke towers. Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all, Flowers in the summer Fires in the fall!
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.
Spring passes and one remembers one's innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one's exuberance. Autumn passes and one remembers one's reverence. Winter passes and one remembers one's perseverance.
Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds - November!
In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.
Fall has always been my favorite season.
The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
There is a privacy about it which no other season gives you.
... In spring, summer and fall people sort of have an open season on each other; only in the winter, in the country, can you have longer, quiet stretches when you can savor belonging to yourself.
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There is no season such delight can bring, as summer, autumn, winter and the spring.
I loved autumn, the one season of the year that God seemed to have put there just for the beauty of it.
Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound; And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm.
Philosophies fall away like sand, creeds follow one another, but what is beautiful is a joy for all seasons, a possession for all eternity.
I look upon the judgment of right and wrong as the serpentine dance of a dragon, and the rise and fall of beliefs as but traces left by the four seasons.
Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year.
The morning of the first September was crisp and golden as an apple.
Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life.
Football begins in the fall, when everything's dying.
Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.
When death comes, it's just like winter.
We don't say, "There ought not to be winter." That the winter season, when the leaves fall and the snow comes, is some kind of defeat, something which we should hold out against. No. Winter is part of the natural course of events. No winter, no summer. No cold, no heat.
A long-term romance is like a rose bush.
In any given season, a blossom might fall off. But if the plant is well nourished, then the season will come around again, and new blossoms appear.
Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.
Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.
When everything that ticked has stopped, and space stares, all around, or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, repeal the beating ground.
Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky, How beautiful it is? All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness There is a poem, there is a song. Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring. When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with The music of many leaves, Which in due season fall and are blown away. And this is the way of life.
Sing a song of seasons; something bright in all, flowers in the summer, fires in the fall.
Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter's pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
Time is more complex near the sea than in any other place, for in addition to the circling of the sun and the turning of the seasons, the waves beat out the passage of time on the rocks and the tides rise and fall as a great clepsydra.
Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north - wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!
There ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.
The autumn always gets me badly, as it breaks into colours.
I want to go south, where there is no autumn, where the cold doesn't crouch over one like a snow-leopard waiting to pounce.
There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...
Without a thorough conviction of sin, men may seem to come to Jesus and follow Him for a season, but they will soon fall away and return to the world.
I am the child of Fortune, the giver of good, and I shall not be shamed.
She is my mother; my sisters are the Seasons; my rising and my falling match with theirs. Born thus, I ask to be no other man than that I am.
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
Talent has the four seasons: spring, that is to say, the sowing of the seeds; summer, growth; autumn, the harvest; winter, intellectual death. But there is now and then a genius who has no winter, and, no matter how many years he may live, on the blossom of his thought no snow falls. Genius has the climate of perpetual growth.
Spring, summer, and fall fill us with hope; winter alone reminds us of the human condition.
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.