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Our judgment ripens; our imagination decays. We cannot at once enjoy the flowers of the Spring of life and the fruits of its Autumn.
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Primus will be better suited in the Australian Guineas in the autumn.
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Sad; so sad, those smoky-rose, smoky-mauve evenings of late Autumn, sad enough to pierce the heart
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Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness.
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Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, Sad thoughts and sunny weather; Ah me! this glory and this grief Agree not well together!
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Summer makes me drowsy. Autumn makes me sing. Winter’s pretty lousy, but I hate Spring.
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The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather’d up gold, And now he is dying’.. Old age, begin sighing!
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The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade, Where naked branches make a fitful shade, And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie.
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The dead leaves their rich mosaics Of olive and gold and brown Had laid on the rain-wet pavements, Through all the embowered town.
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The lands are lit with all the autumn blaze of golden-rod, and everywhere the purple asters nod and bend and wave and flit.
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The leaves fall, the wind blows, and the farm country slowly changes from the summer cottons into its winter wools.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
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The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;–lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!–‘Tis no sport for peasants.
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The misty earth below is wan and drear, The baying winds chase all the leaves away, As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer; It is a solemn time, the sunset of the year.
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The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,. a gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf incessant rustles from the mournful grove, oft startling such as studious, walk below, and slowly circles through the waving air.
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The smoke of frankincense earth transcends. On the charcoal campfire below its smokerise the steam from the pot of berry tea upcurls. These 3 streams entwine into trinity…. while from the windswept willowwoods upwings a wren.
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The spring, the summer, the chill autumn, angry winter, change their wonted liveries.
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The summer’s throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange blooms, And thou art here alone–alone– Sing, little bird! the rest have flown.
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The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
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