Seasonal Transition Quotes

Autumn is really the best of the seasons; and I'm not sure that old age isn't the best part of life.

I'm so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn't it?

October is the month for painted leaves. Their rich glow now flashes round the world. As fruits and leaves and the day itself acquire a bright tint just before they fall, so the year near its setting. October is its sunset sky; November the later twilight.

The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.

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

Autumn is as joyful and sweet as an untimely end.

It's autumn and everybody feels like a disembodied spirit then.

It’s spring! Farewell To chills and colds! The blushing, girlish World unfolds Each flower, leaf And blade of sod— Small letters sent To her from God.

The spring came suddenly, bursting upon the world as a child bursts into a room, with a laugh and a shout and hands full of flowers.

O suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together. Ye cannot rival for one hour October's bright blue weather.

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

Summer makes a silence after spring.

The swallow is come! The swallow is come! O, fair are the seasons, and light Are the days that she brings, With her dusky wings, And her bosom snowy white!

Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter — the hardest season, the most implacable — dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.

How strange and awful is the synthesis of life and death in the gusty winds and falling leaves of an autumnal day!

Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.

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

When snow melts, what does it become?' It becomes water, of course' Wrong! It becomes spring!

The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.

Now I realize that the trees blossom in Spring and bear fruit in Summer without seeking praise; and they drop their leaves in Autumn and become naked in Winter without fearing blame.

First snow-falling-on the half-finished bridge.