Alfred Austin Quotes

When summer opens, I see how fast it matures, and fear it will be short; but after the heats of July and August, I am reconciled, like one who has had his swing, to the cool of autumn.

Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows, and all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone. I already hear the dead thuds of logs below falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.

Behold congenial Autumn comes, the Sabbath of the Year.

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.

Autumn is leaving its mellowness behind for its spiky, rotted stage. Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.

For summer there, bear in mind, is a loitering gossip, that only begins to talk of leaving when September rises to go.

Summer passes into autumn in some unimaginable point of time, like the turning of a leaf.

But then fall comes, kicking summer out on its treacherous ass as it always does one day sometime after the midpoint of September, it stays awhile like an old friend that you have missed. It settles in the way an old friend will settle into your favorite chair and take out his pipe and light it and then fill the afternoon with stories of places he has been and things he has done since last he saw you.

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

As fall the light autumnal leaves, one still the other following, till the bough strews all its honors on the earth below.

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

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.

Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.

Autumn is full of leave-taking.

Now the peak of summer's past, the sky is overcast And the love we swore would last for an age seems deceit.

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

Dobbin at manger pulls his hay: Gone is another summer's day.

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

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!

The end-of-summer winds make people restless.