Lucy Maud Montgomery Quotes

Autumn burned brightly, a running flame through the mountains, a torch flung to the trees.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

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

The goldenrod is yellow, The corn is turning brown, The trees in apple orchards With fruit are bending down.

Behold congenial Autumn comes, the Sabbath of the Year.

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now Its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, And, from a beaker full of richest dyes, Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, Where Autumn, like a faint old man, sits down By the wayside a-weary.

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

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tendered kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet.

What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money?

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

Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods and day by day the dead leaves fall and melt.

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.'

It was one of those sumptuous days when the world is full of autumn muskiness and tangy, crisp perfection: vivid blue sky, deep green fields, leaves in a thousand luminous hues. It is a truly astounding sight when every tree in a landscape becomes individual, when each winding back highway and plump hillside is suddenly and infinitely splashed with every sharp shade that nature can bestow - flaming scarlet, lustrous gold, throbbing vermilion, fiery orange.

In warlike pomp, with banners flowing, The regiments of autumn stood: I saw their gold and scarlet glowing From every hillside, every wood.

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 full of leave-taking.