Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Autumnal. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Autumnal Quotes And Sayings by 90 Authors including Cerella Sechrist,Craig Johnson,Elizabeth Goudge,David Mitchell,Vincent Van Gogh for you to enjoy and share.
Some people thought spring was the time of renewal, but Sadie had always equated that feeling with autumn. It felt like a shedding of mistakes - falling leaves, crisp breezes. As if you could cast off an old skin to work on a new one.
the Autumn Count and
Autumn days have a holiness that spring lacks ... They are like old serene saints for whom death has lost its terror.
Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.
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.
There is a harmony in autumn, and a luster in its sky, which through the summer is not heard or seen, as if it could not be, as if it had not been!
There is a time in late September when the leaves are still green, and the days are still warm, but somehow you know that it is all about to end, as if summer was holding its breath, and when it let it out again, it would be autumn.
Autumn felt like the whole world was browned and roasted until it was so tender it was about to fall away from the bone.
Autumn
The passion
Is still flourishing in the branches
Yellow funny and daring red
The sun warms even in the days
Where the fog
Stubbornly in the morning
From a distance
A woodpecker knocks
Impermanence
Is the enemy of beauty
The first breath of autumn was in the air, a prodigal feeling, a feeling of wanting, taking, and keeping before it is too late.
I loved autumn, the one season of the year that God seemed to have put there just for the beauty of it.
Nature awakens in brilliant colors of autumn, making me wish winter would bid adieu.
Autumn can be glorious but menacing too - the long shadows, brisk winds, scurrying leaves, impending frost.
Steam rising underneath a canopy of whispering, changing aspens; starlight in the clear, dark night, and wondrous beauty in every direction. If only all could feel this way, to be so captured and enthralled with autumn.
Spring and Autumn
Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.
I like autumn. The drama of it; the golden lion roaring through the back door of the year, shaking its mane of leaves. A dangerous time; of violent rages and deceptive calm, of fireworks in the pockets and conkers in the fist.
Autumn is here
and I am in love.
My heart has taken residence in my mind.
I pick the crisp ochre leaves
and put them in my pocket.
I am in love.
Summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.
Autumn
The cheerful sundial;
it falls in the shadow
of thy leaves.
there
where your branches
brace themselves
against the gate of heaven
My soul is in a state of perpetual Autumn.
There is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air.
The once green leaves have faded to blood-red and autumn herself has wrapped her crisp cloak around your shoulders
Great artists come and go; they are born and they die; but there is one exception who has been living for thousands of years and still continues creating new works, new beauties every year: The Autumn!
Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.
I am struck by the simplicity of light in the atmosphere in the autumn, as if the earth absorbed none, and out of this profusion of dazzling light came the autumnal tints.
The torchlit garden was redolent with the colors and scents of autumn... gold and copper foliage, thick borders of roses and dahlias, flowering grasses and beds of fresh mulch that made the air pleasantly pungent.
When autumn comes, it doesn't ask. It just walks in, where it left you last. And you never know, when it starts; until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart.
Every season has its own art and the art of autumn is to bewitch the people!
The spring air just on the cold side of perfect, the late-afternoon light heavenly in its hurtfulness.
It almost seems as if autumn were the true creator, more creative than the spring, which is too even-toned, more creative when it comes with its will-to-change and shatters the much too ready-made, self-satisfied and really almost bourgeois-complacent image of summer.
October, baptize me with leaves! Swaddle me in corduroy and nurse me with split pea soup. October, tuck tiny candy bars in my pockets and carve my smile into a thousand pumpkins. O autumn! O teakettle! O grace!
My heart is a garden tired with autumn.
In Heaven, it is always Autumn".
Autumn always fascinated me - so much beauty in dying. Leaves holding on until the bitter end, finally going down in a blaze of glory, almost as if they were trying to convince us to keep them alive.
There was a hint of spring in her sole green eyes, something summery in her complexion, and a rich autumn ripeness in her walk.
There is only one autumn in a year, but in people's life, there are many autumns in one year!
Every flower displays its beautiful colours in autumn.
He says a word,
and I say a word - autumn
is deepening.
Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
To Autumn
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.
She looked like autumn, when leaves turned and fruit ripened.
A second blow of many flowers appears, flowers faintly tinged and breathing no perfume; but fruits, not blossoms, form the woodland wreath that circles Autumn's brow.
Of faire things, the Autumne is faire.
Nature awakens each day in brilliant autumn colors, making me wish the pale winter would bid adieu.
Nothing dies as beautifully as autumn.
A springlike autumn's balmy breeze reaches afar. The sun shines on the house of a recluse South of the river; They encourage the December apricots To burst into bloom: A simplehearted person Faces the simplehearted flowers.
Autumn breathes in shades of white; cloth of mist dressed fields comfortable.
Autumn of the Patriarch,
The artist needs to sit patiently at the feet of Nature in all Her moods and nuances and silently develop the skills to honour Her. There are no recipes for Autumn.
Autumn brings the falling of leaves and cool days.
Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are all falling, and they're falling like
they're falling in love with the ground.
The first truly autumnal day of the new season. Soft, pretty scarves looped necks, skinny jeans encased skinny and not-so-skinny thighs, spike-heeled boots tapped across the playground.
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.
No man can taste the fruits of autumn while he is delighting his scent with the flowers of spring.
Autumn is the harvest of greedy death.
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
When Autumn was born, it was as if she recognized her, as if she'd always known that it would be her, this little person who had come to live with her and reside permanently in her heart. It was a love unlike any other: fierce and powerful.
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.
Magnificent autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds; not like a hermit, clad in gray; but like a warrior with the stain of blood in his brazen mail.
Why I so much prefer autumn to spring is that in the autumn one looks at heaven
in the spring at the earth.
The autumn comes, a maiden fair In slenderness and grace, With nodding rice-stems in her hair And lilies in her face. In flowers of grasses she is clad; And as she moves along, Birds greet her with their cooing glad Like bracelets' tinkling song.
I love fall
The season
of warm colors
Autumn is no time to lie alone
A Winterian wielding an Autumnian weapon, using Cordellan allegiance to bring Spring crumbling down.
Autumn seemed to arrive suddenly that year. The morning of the first September was crisp and golden as an apple.
When the seasons shift, even the subtle beginning, the scent of a promised change, I feel something stir inside me. Hopefulness? Gratitude? Openness? Whatever it is, it's welcome.
Autumn, like Alzheimer's, turns everything strange and unfamiliar, and when you look for the shape of the real hidden within, you find only a promise of the winter to come.
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.
Give me juicy autumnal fruit, ripe and red from the orchard.
[Give me the splendid silent sun]
Spring, of all seasons most gratuitous,
Is fold of untaught flower, is race of water,
Is earth's most multiple, excited daughter;
And those she has least use for see her best,
Their paths grown craven and circuitous,
Their visions mountain-clear, their needs immodest.
Life is a dream and autumn is a dream within dream!
The magic of autumn has seized the countryside; now that the sun isn't ripening anything it shines for the sake of the golden age; for the sake of Eden; to please the moon for all I know.
Deep inside, we're still the boys of autumn, that magic time of the year that once swept us onto America's fields.
I love feeling the crispness of fall and the sensuality of spring.
It follows the seasons, beginning each year with the fond expectancy of springtime and ending with the hard facts of autumn.
I love the start of autumn when the trees in my garden change the colour of their leaves in one last dazzling display.
Autumn flings her fiery cloak over the sumac, beech and oak.
hay gold dusk of late spring,
Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring?
Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
Wind as old as Rome outside my window, inky fleece clouds against charcoal crushed velvet skies, fall feels soulful, like a LaBelle octave.
I love autumn despite the drench weather. I think it symbolises the end of misery and the beginning of glee. It gives hopes that sooner or later, flowers will bloom again, green buds will sprout from trees, and that which is dead will come back alive.
The last dead leaves of fall crackled underfoot, winter-crisp.
Autumn was her happiest season.
Fall arrived with its honey light and cool evenings, and the maple leaves brightened to match the reds and yellow of ripe apples. It was time to put away the bounty of the warm months for fortitude during the cold ones, as humans had done for centuries.
Seen on a night in November
How frail
Above the bulk
Of crashing water hangs,
Autumn, evanescent, wan,
The moon.
November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.
Autumn is a hint from God to Old Age.
Autumn afternoon:
a sycamore leaf
falls softly
and rests
on its own shadow
I welcome the autumnal chill in the air. There is a stimulation about it. Life moves to a different rhythm. There is a sense of change in the atmosphere and change is good inasmuch as it prevents stagnation. We should grow weary of a summer that never ended.
There is no season such delight can bring, as summer, autumn, winter and the spring.
The air has that bracing autumnal bite so that all you want to do is bob for apples or hang a witch or something.
Sometimes I ask myself what autumn smells like? My answer is smell of the fireworks of autumn leaves and red wine.
It was the final, explosive demonstration of summer, the line in the sand, a desperate attempt to hold fall forever at bay. But autumn nibbled the blue sky with its teeth, tore off chunks of the sun, smudged out that heavy veil of meat-smelling smoke.
I love the autumn for its sense of melancholy seems to strike my need for sadness. There is poetry in the dying of the year and mystery as well.
Humid the air! Leafless, yet soft as spring. The tender purple spray on copse and briers! And that sweet city with her dreaming spires, she needs not June for beauty's heightening. Lovely all the time she lies ...
Spring is the only season that flutters in on gentle wings and builds nests in our hearts.
Her soul was a fifth season, of richer hue than autumn, bursting with more life than spring, hidden away, ready to transform the world with such glory as it had never seen.
It is the sweetest spring within the memory of man. So green, so mild, so beautiful! Ah, what a contrast between nature without and my own soul so torn with doubt and terror!
The breath of springtime at this twilight hour
Comes through the gathering glooms,
And bears the stolen sweets of many a flower
Into my silent rooms.