Elinor Wylie Quotes

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

Fall is my favorite season in Los Angeles, watching the birds change color and fall from the trees.

Autumn leaves falling down like pieces into place, and I can picture it after all these days.

Autumn that year painted the countryside in vivid shades of scarlet, saffron and russet, and the days were clear and crisp under harvest skies.

What if the leaves were to fall a-weeping, and say, "It will be so painful for us to be pulled from our stalks, when autumn comes?" Foolish fear! Summer goes, and autumn succeeds. The glory of death is upon the leaves; and the gentlest breeze that blows takes them softly and silently from the bough, and they float slowly down, like fiery sparks, upon the moss.

I do love the outdoor. Love love the outdoors, fishing and hunting and that kind of thing.

When I was growing up, and other people I knew were getting into trouble, I was somewhere in a deer stand or going to bed early so I could be up before dawn to hunt turkeys. My love of the outdoors kept me solid.

I actually hated hunting the first time I went when I was a kid. My dad took us deer hunting. We sat there for 30 minutes, and I felt like I was losing my mind. But in college, I fell in love with it. Football became a full-time job, and I needed an escape. I needed something that would mellow me out.

Hunting is alive and well, and so it should be.

I love the outdoors. I love getting to hunt and fish and work on the land and ride our horses.

Besides the Autumn poets sing, A few prosaic days, A little this side of the snow, And that side of the Haze..., Grant me, Oh Lord, a sunny mind- Thy windy will to bear!

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.

I sit beside the fire and think of all that I have seen, of meadow-flowers and butterflies in summers that have been; Of yellow leaves and gossamer in autumns that there were, with morning mist and silver sun and wind upon my hair.

I wonder if leaves feel lonely when they see their neighbors falling?

Suddenly it was fall, the season of death, the anniversary of things-going-to-hell.

What was it Catelyn Stark had called them, that night at Bitterbridge? The knights of summer. And now it was autumn and they were falling like leaves.

Sing a song of seasons; something bright in all, flowers in the summer, fires in the fall.

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.

Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold: Once more with harvest song and shout Is nature's boldest triumph told.

Autumn is full of leave-taking.

Uneasily the leaves fall at this season, forgetting what to do or where to go; the red amnesiacs of autumn drifting thru the graveyard forest. What they have forgotten they have forgotten: what they meant to do instead of fall is not in earth or time recoverable the fossils of intention, the shapes of rot.