End of Summer Quotes

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.

Labor Day is seen as a day of rest for many hardworking Americans.

Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar.

All still when summer is over stand shocks in the field, nothing left to whisper, not even good-bye, to the wind. After summer was over we knew winter would come: we knew silence would wait, tall, patient calm.

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

Those final weeks, spanning end of summer and the beginning of another autumn, are blurred in memory, perhaps because our understanding of each other had reached that sweet depth where two people communicate more often in silence than in words: an affectionate quietness replaces the tensions, the unrelaxed chatter and chasing about that produce a friendship’s more showy, more, in the surface sense, dramatic moments.

We celebrate Labor Day by not going to work?

It is a sad moment when the first phlox appears. It is the amber light indicating the end of the great burst of early summer and suggesting that we must now start looking forward to autumn. Not that I have any objection to autumn as a season, full of its own beauty; but I just cannot bear to see another summer go, and I recoil from what the first hint of autumn means.

The crickets felt it was their duty to warn everybody that summertime cannot last for ever. Even on the most beautiful days in the whole year - the days when summer is changing into autumn - the crickets spread the rumor of sadness and change.

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

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

It is still summer, but the summer is no longer alive. It has come to a standstill; nothing withers, and fall is not ready to begin. There are no stars yet, just darkness.

Autumn wins you best by this its mute appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Don't remember summer even saying goodbye.

Summer runs out the way a centerfielder runs out of real estate - slowly at first, then all at once.

'Boys of Summer,' to me, is like the end of the summer, man. That heartbreaking feeling where you have to go back to school, your summer love is coming to an end, and the leaves are changing. That was always such an emotional time for me as a kid, because I loved summer so much.

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.

There is a time in the last few days of summer when the ripeness of autumn fills the air.

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer, Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing, Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects, Ceaseless, insistent. The grasshopper's horn, and far-off, high in the maples, The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence Under a moon waning and worn, broken, Tired with summer.

The morning had dawned clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer.

Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.

The winding down of summer puts me in a heavy philosophical mood.

August has passed, and yet summer continues by force to grow days. They sprout secretly between the chapters of the year, covertly included between its pages.