Stephen King Quotes

October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen.

I love the chill October days, when the brown leaves lie thick and sodden underneath your feet ... the evenings in late autumn time, when the white mist creeps across the fields, making it seem as though old Earth, feeling the night air cold to its poor bones, were drawing ghostly bedclothes round its withered limbs.

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

Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

November is the most disagreeable month in the whole year.

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.

October is the month for painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight.

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. It was a Sunday in September. There would only be four. The clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

Behold congenial Autumn comes, the Sabbath of the Year.

Autumn leaves shower like gold, like rainbows, as the winds of change begin to blow, signaling the later days of autumn.

You will come home before the leaves have fallen from the trees.

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

You ought to know that October is the first Spring month.

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.

Autumn is really the best of the seasons; and I'm not sure that old age isn't the best part of life.

Autumn is full of leave-taking.

Only the soldier pines and sentinels still showed green; the broadleaf trees had donned mantles of russet and gold, or else uncloaked themselves to scratch against the sky with branches brown and bare.

In the entire circle of the year there are no days so delightful as those of a fine October.

Autumn is the mellower season, and what we lose in flowers we more than gain in fruits.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun.

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.

There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings as now in October.

Autumn is full of leave-taking. In September the swallows are chattering of destination and departure like a crowd of tourists.