There is a harmony in autumn,
and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer
is not heard or seen.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
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.
Summer is already
better, but the best is autumn.
It is mature, reasonable and serious, it glows
moderately and not frivolously. . . It cools down,
clears up, makes you reasonable. . . -Valentin
A few days ago I
walked along the edge of the lake and was treated to the crunch and rustle of leaves with each step I made. The acoustics of this season are different and all sounds, no matter how hushed, are as crisp as autumn air.
is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of
but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What person can
stand with autumn
on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his or her world and the meaning of
the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?
Change is a measure of
time and, in the autumn,
time seems speeded up. What was is not and never
again will be; what is is change. -Edwin
For humans, autumn is a
time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.
-Edwin Way Teale
When autumn shadows throw
their patterns across the land, they are
not the images of fragile,
dying leaves, not the bared arms of lofty elms,
not shadows of a
fading summer; but swinging shapes as of books
upon a strap, of round
and square boxes held under an arm,
of hurrying little people heading
towards the nearest school. -Djuna Barnes
cannot endure to waste anything as precious as autumn sunshine by staying in the house. So I spend almost all the daylight hours in the open air.
here's to you. Here's to the heady aroma of the frost-kissed apples,
the winey smell of ripened grapes,
the wild-as-the-wind smell of hickory nuts
and the nostalgic whiff of that first wood smoke.
the soft, sweet-smelling haze,
a maple stands alone, a blaze
of color, stirring memories
of rustic lanes and giant trees;
and there, along the curb for miles--
the leaves raked up in equal piles.
be anything we know
that can evoke the wondrous glow
of childhood more than trampling leaves?
How clearly, then, the soul perceives--
amid the miracle of fall,
that we are children, one and all.
Oh, let me
never grow too old
to be bewitched by autumn's gold--
to share the overwhelming joy
within the heart of that small boy
who runs amuck when he perceives
these tempting, ordered piles of leaves.
told the wild geese
told the wild geese
It was time to go.
Though the fields lay golden
Something whispered, "snow."
Leaves were green and stirring,
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.
Why is it that so many of
us persist in thinking that autumn is a sad season? Nature has
merely fallen asleep, and her dreams must be beautiful
if we are to
judge by her countenance. -Samuel Taylor Coleridge
is easily my favorite time of the year. The days
the leaves have turned,
and the world is
busy preparing herself
for winter. There's
about the clear brisk days,
smell of the woodstove or the fireplace,
the first frost,
sounds of the Canadian geese overhead as they pass
their way south, the canning of the late
fruits and vegetables, the
and cider stands on
the roadways. School has started,
in the air, even though the season is the
precursor to winter. Somehow, the world knows that
necessary, and the long preparation for the
cold of winter--the
preparation which is autumn--is a
beautiful, necessary part of the world. -Tom Walsh
Autumn. . . makes a double
demand. It asks that we prepare
for the future--that we be wise
in the ways of garnering and keeping. But it also asks that we
learn to let go--to acknowledge
the beauty of sparseness. -Bonaro W.
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.
like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is
too proud. So I like best of all autumn, because its
a little yellow, its tones mellower, its colors
richer, and it is tinged
a little with sorrow. Its golden
richness speaks not
of the innocence of spring, nor of the power
of summer, but
of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of
approaching age. It knows the limitations of life and is
is youthful, mirthful, frolicsome--the child of summer's
on every side there are suggestions of
juvenility and mischief. While spring
is a careful artist
who paints each flower with delicate workmanship,
flings whole pots of paint about in wild carelessness.
and scarlet colours reserved for roses and
tulips are splashed on the brambles
till every bush is
aflame, and the old creeper-covered house blushes like a
sunset. -Roger Wray
never known anyone yet who doesn't suffer a certain restlessness when autumn rolls around. . . .
We're all eight years old again and anything is possible.
There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
By the wayside a-weary.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry
Of bugles going by.
And my lonely spirit thrills
To see the frosty asters like a smoke upon the hills.
That Passes Understanding (excerpt)
Autumn is not a time designed for speed;
After the summer's careful ripening,
Moments of quiet are the spirit's need
And time to listen when the wood sprites sing,
Time to absorb the beauty and take home
Something to hold of blue October skies,
Gold leaves to hoard for days we cannot roam. . .
Autumn is timed for little country roads
And hearts attuned to travel at their pace. . . .
And is an extra hour too much to spend
With all the countryside aflame with gold,
With rich fulfillment marking summer's end
And fall so soon a tale that has been told?
October woodlands cry for time to wait;
The beauty-wakened heart cries out to share
This wonderland before it is too late,
Before the frosty limbs stand gray and bare.
Mary E. Linton
seems to me that Autumn is the really austere season. Everything
burns into a glory of colour and disappears.
The green splendour of
Spring degenerates into lushness,
the leaves are tarnished with dust,
but the flaming reds
and yellows, the pale gold, the rose colour, the
purple-red of these trees will swirl with the wind, will
one splendid moment of sailing in the blueness of
the sky, one moment
of motion beyond anything that a leaf
could dream of. . . . I have seen
this country for the
first time at an austere season. But it would always
because it is passionate. The earth burns with a colour of
with the colour of red, burns with a purple blackness, shows
of stone, coloured, blanched, carved into fantasy.
autumn! My very soul is wedded to it,
and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth
seeking the successive autumns. -George
Now the autumn shudders
In the rose's root.
Far and wide the ladders
Lean among the fruit.
Now the autumn clambers
Up the trellised frame,
And the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Brighter than the blossom
On the rose's bough
Sits the wizened orange,
Bitter berry now;
Beauty never slumbers;
All is in her name;
But the rose remembers
The dust from which it came.
Edna St. Vincent Millay
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.
Listen. . . .
With faint dry sound
Likes steps of passing ghosts,
The leaves, frost-crisped, break from the trees
No Spring, nor Summer beauty
hath such grace
As I have seen
in one Autumnal face.
leaves lying on the grass in the November sun
happiness than the daffodils.
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