Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. — John Muir
Fake friends are like autumn leaves, they’re scattered everywhere. — Unknown
What a simple thing death is, just as simple as the falling of an autumn leaf. — Vincent Van Gogh
No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of spring. — Samuel Johnson
It was a beautiful bright autumn day, with air like cider and a sky so blue you could drown in it. — Diana Gabaldon
I trust in nature for the stable laws of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant and autumn garner to the end of time. — Robert Browning
“Now it is autumn and the falling fruit
and the long journey towards oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from themselves.” — D. H. Lawrence
It was Indian summer, a bluebird sort of day as we call it in the north, warm and sunny, without a breath of wind; the water was sky-blue, the shores a bank of solid gold. — Sigurd F. Olson
Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise. — Gregg Easterbrook
“It blows a snowing gale in the winter of the year;
The boats are on the sea and the crews are on the pier.
The needle of the vane, it is veering to and fro,
A flash of sun is on the veering of the vane.
Autumn leaves and rain,
The passion of the gale.” — Robert Louis Stevenson
All who have travelled through the delicious scenery of North Devon must needs know the little white town of Bideford, which slopes upwards from its broad tide-river paved with yellow sands, and many-arched old bridge, where salmon wait for Autumn floods, toward the pleasant upland on the west. — Charles Kingsley
Of Nature itself upon the soul; the sunrise, the haze of autumn, the winter starlight seem interlocutors; the prevailing sense is that of an exposition in poetry; a high discourse, the voice of the speaker seems to breathe as much from the landscape as from his own breast; it is Nature communing with the seer. — Ralph Waldo Emerson
There was no moon but the night sky was a riot of crisp and glittering autumn stars. There were streetlights too and lights on buildings and on bridges which looked like earthbound stars and they glimmered repeated as they were reflected with the city in the night water of the Thames. It’s fairyland thought Richard. — Neil Gaiman
It was one of those perfect New York October afternoons, when the explosion of oranges and yellows against the bright blue sky makes you feel like your life is passing through your fingers, that you’ve felt this autumn-feeling before and you’ll probably get to feel it again, but one day you won’t anymore, because you’ll be dead. — Sarah Dunn
As might be expected of creatures so heavenly in color, the disposition of bluebirds is particularly angelic. Gentleness and amiability are expressed in their soft musical voice. Tru-al-ly, tru-al-ly, they sweetly assert when we can scarcely believe that spring is here; tru-wee, tur-wee they softly call in autumn when they go roaming through the countryside in flocks of azure. — Neltje Blanchan
I love this place; I love mountains and big skies and forests. And the weather is still supremely beautiful even though the lower peaks are powdered with fresh snow. But Heavens! What sun. It never has an ending. I am basking at this minute – half past four – too hot without a hat, & the sky is that transparent blue only to be seen in autumn – the forest trees steeped in light. — Katherine Mansfield
Variations: II Green light, from the moon, Pours over the dark blue trees, Green light from the autumn moon Pours on the grass … Green light falls on the goblin fountain Where hesitant lovers meet and pass. They laugh in the moonlight, touching hands, They move like leaves on the wind … I remember an autumn night like this, And not so long ago, When other lovers were blown like leaves, Before the coming of snow. — Conrad Aiken
“Something told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, “”snow.””
Leaves were green and stirring,
Berries, luster-glossed,
But beneath warm feathers
Something cautioned, “”frost.””
All the sagging orchards
Steamed with amber spice
But each wild breast stiffened
At remembered ice.
Something told the wild geese
It was time to fly-
Summer sun was on their wings,
Winter in their cry.” — Rachel Field
What of miniature boats constructed of birch bark and fallen leaves, launched onto cold water clear as air? How many fleets were pushed out toward the middles of ponds or sent down autumn brooks, holding treasures of acorns, or black feathers, or a puzzled mantis? Let those grassy crafts be listed alongside the iron hulls that cleave the sea, for they are all improvisations built from the daydreams of men, and all will perish, whether from the ocean siege or October breeze. — Paul Harding
