Autumn Quotes

The year growing ancient, Nor yet on summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling winter.

The teeming autumn, big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime.

The spring, the summer, the chill autumn, angry winter, change their wonted liveries.

This sunlight shames November where he grieves In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun The day, though bough with bough be overrun. But with a blessing every glade receives High salutation.

O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of night, The skies yet blushing with departing light, When falling dews with spangles deck'd the glade, And the low sun had lengthened every shade.

Thrice happy time, Best portion of the various year, in which Nature rejoyceth, smiling on her works Lovely, to full perfection wrought!

Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather; Ah me! this glory and this grief Agree not well together!

Autumn Into earth's lap does throw Brown apples gay in a game of play, As the equinoctials blow.

Every season hath its pleasure; Spring may boast her flowery prime, Yet the vineyard's ruby treasuries Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.

However constant the visitations of sickness and bereavement, the fall of the year is most thickly strewn with the fall of human life. Everywhere the spirit of some sad power seems to direct the time; it hides from us the blue heavens, it makes the green wave turbid; it walks through the fields, and lays the damp ungathered harvest low; it cries out in the night wind and the shrill hail; it steals the summer bloom from the infant cheek; it makes old age shiver to the heart; it goes to the churchyard, and chooses many a grave.

What visionary tints the year puts on, When falling leaves falter through motionless air Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone! How shimmer the low flats and pastures bare, As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills The bowl between me and those distant hills, And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

Behold congenial Autumn comes, The Sabbath of the year!

To her bier comes the year, not with weeping and distress, as mortals do; but to guide her way to it, all the trees have torches lit.

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-eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.