September 23rd 2022
Another summer has come and gone, and now it’s time for autumn.
Some also use autumn chance to take stock of the year so far, or embark on a new beginning. Anything is possible in autumn.
If that’s you – and you’re keen to post something to celebrate that autumn has finally arrived – there are a number of enthusiastic quotes and charming poems to consider.
Here are a few options.
‘Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.’ – The Great Gatsby, by F Scott Fitzgerald
‘I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers.’ – Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery
‘Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him,’ – Homeland, by Hal Borland
‘And all at once, summer collapsed into the fall.’ – Oscar Wilde
‘I would rather sit on a pumpkin, and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion.’ – Henry David Thoreau
‘Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.’ – Albert Camus
‘No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.’ – John Donne
‘Aprils have never meant much to me, autumns seem that season of beginning, spring.’ – Breakfast at Tiffany’s, by Truman Capote
‘Delicious 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 Eliot
‘May the autumnal equinox be the beginning of new things in your life.’ – Unknown
‘There is something so special in the early leaves drifting from the trees, as if we are all to be allowed a chance to peel, to refresh, to start again.’ – Ruth Ahmed
‘The first breath of autumn was in the air, a prodigal feeling, a feeling of wanting, taking, and keeping before it is too late.’ – JL Carr
‘How beautifully leaves grow old. How full of light and colour are their last days.’ – John Burroughs.
Fall, Leaves, Fall by Emily Brontë
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
To Autumn by John Keats
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,–
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
Around; up above, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?
I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
And, éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies?
And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
Majestic—as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!—
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.
Visiting a pumpkin patch? Use these captions to impress your fall-owers:
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