Lydia M. Child Quotes

Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

Nature gives to every time and season some beauties of its own.

How beautiful the leaves grow old. How full of light and color are their last days.

I know the lands are lit, with all the autumn blaze of Goldenrod.

Fall is my favorite season in Los Angeles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.

The leaves had fallen from the trees and lay crisp and crackling beneath his feet. Picking one up he marveled, not for the first time, at the perfection of nature where leaves were most beautiful at the very end of their lives.

The tints of autumn...a mighty flower garden blossoming under the spell of the enchanter, frost.

I gave my heart to the mountains the minute I stood beside this river with its spray in my face and watched it thunder into foam, smooth to green glass over sunken rocks, shatter to foam again. I was fascinated by how it sped by and yet was always there; its roar shook both the earth and me.

Nature seemed to have adorned herself for our departure with a profusion of fringes and curls, mingled with the bright tints of flowers, reflected in the water. But we missed the white water-lily, which is the queen of river flowers, its reign being over for this season.... Many of this species inhabit our Concord water.

I love the start of autumn when the trees in my garden change the colour of their leaves in one last dazzling display.

I think the coming of spring, the stars overhead, the first snowfall and so on are gifts for a child, a young poet.

I am spending delightful afternoons in my garden, watching everything living around me. As I grow older, I feel everything departing, and I love everything with more passion.

My soul, be satisfied with flowers, with fruit, with weeds even; but gather them in the one garden you may call your own.

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 seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.

He who only does not appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied like any other man who is born imperfect. It is a misfortune not unlike blindness.

White hair often covers the head, but the heart that holds it is ever young.

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.

How cunningly nature hides every wrinkle of her inconceivable antiquity under roses and violets and morning dew!

The fields and the flowers and the beautiful faces are not ours, as the stars and the hills and the sunlight are not ours, but they give us fresh and happy thoughts.