John Burroughs Quotes

I tend to like the last sentence I just wrote, which is: 'It was late in the fall and the trees lining our driveway had turned red like a row of burning matches.'

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

I love feeling the crispness of fall and the sensuality of spring.

There is a sort of elation about sunlight on the upper part of a house.

When the days start to get shorter, I want to be in some nice brick building on the East Coast with the lights glowing in the windows. When the daylight starts changing, I want to be out West.

Fall is my favorite my time of the year. I love it. I'll try and make it back to Vancouver a bunch. I love going back home for that. Everything turns orange. You start to get out of summer, start making your way into the winter, everyone is wearing jackets. Vancouver lights up in the fall, so I definitely go back there for a bit.

She looked like autumn, when leaves turned and fruit ripened.

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

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.

It was like autumn, looking at her. it was like driving up north to see the colors.

It was October again ... a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain - amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue. The dews were so heavy that the fields glistened like cloth of silver and there were such heaps of rustling leaves in the hollows of many-stemmed woods to run crisply through.

Not yesterday I learned to know The love of bare November days Before the coming of the snow.

GATHERING LEAVES Spades take up leaves No better than spoons, And bags full of leaves Are light as balloons. I make a great noise Of rustling all day Like rabbit and deer Running away. But the mountains I raise Elude my embrace, Flowing over my arms And into my face. I may load and unload Again and again Till I fill the whole shed, And what have I then? Next to nothing for weight, And since they grew duller From contact with earth, Next to nothing for color. Next to nothing for use. But a crop is a crop, And who's to say where The harvest shall stop?

Now in November nearer comes the sun down the abandoned heaven.

Even the air feels different on Halloween, autumn-crisp and bright.

Life is a green madness just now, trying to squeeze the last bit of warmth from the season.

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

It's a sure sign of summer if the chair gets up when you do.

It's autumn and everybody feels like a disembodied spirit then.

I seek truth and beauty in the transparency of an autumn leaf, in the perfect form of a seashell on the beach, in the curve of a woman's back, in the texture of an ancient tree trunk, but also in the elusive forms of reality.

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.