Katherine Mansfield Quotes

Behold congenial Autumn comes, the Sabbath of the Year.

Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. It is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. Autumn seems like paradise.

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 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.

Autumn carries more gold in its pocket than all the other seasons.

Autumn is the eternal corrective. It is ripeness and color and a time of maturity; but it is also breadth, and depth, and distance. What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach to the far horizon?

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

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.

Of all the seasons, autumn offers the most to man and requires the least of him.

Autumn, in his leafless bowers, is waiting for the winter's snow.

Autumn is full of leave-taking.

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

There is a harmony In autumn, and a luster in its sky...

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

What of October, that ambiguous month, the month of tension, the unendurable month?

I didn't get to experience proper autumn until I was eighteen and heading off to college on the East Coast!

Oh sure, I really miss the changing seasons, because in Los Angeles you don't really get that - and I feel like New Yorkers - and, really, all East Coasters - they really earn their good seasons. They earn when the weather's hot; they earn when the leaves start to change.

October is nature's funeral month. Nature glories in death more than in life. The month of departure is more beautiful than the month of coming - October than May. Every green thin loves to die in bright colors.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.

Only after Winter comes do we know that the pine and the cypress are the last to fade.

Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We'll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure.

The tree of life knows that, whatever happens, the warm music spinning around it will never stop. However much death may come, however much blood may flow, the music will dance men and women as long as the air breaths them and the land plows and loves them.