#autumn

My visit this autumn is an opportunity to continue that rich tradition of visits between Canterbury and Rome. ↗

— Rowan Williams

#between #canterbury #continue #opportunity #rich

What had brought me to New York in the autumn of 1972 was a letter of recommendation written by Norman Mailer, the author of 'The Naked and the Dead' and American literature's leading heavyweight contender, to Dan Wolf, the delphic editor of 'The Village Voice.' ↗

— James Wolcott

#author #autumn #brought #contender #dan

Use what you have, use what the world gives you. Use the first day of fall: bright flame before winter's deadness; harvest; orange, gold, amber; cool nights and the smell of fire. Our tree-lined streets are set ablaze, our kitchens filled with the smells of nostalgia: apples bubbling into sauce, roasting squash, cinnamon, nutmeg, cider, warmth itself. The leaves as they spark into wild color just before they die are the world's oldest performance art, and everything we see is celebrating one last violently hued hurrah before the black and white silence of winter. ↗

— Shauna Niequist

#art

Perhaps because it seems so appropriate, I don't notice the rain. It falls in sheets, a blanket of silvery thread rushing to the hard almost-winter ground. Still, I stand without moving at the side of the coffin. ↗

— Michelle Zink

#coffins #death #funerals #rainy-day #death

As he walked, the sad faded leaves were driven pitilessly around him by the wind, and under the mingling influences of autumn and evening, a craving for the quietude of the grave … overtook him with unwanted intensity. ↗

— Georges Rodenbach

#death #death

I want to say something so embarrassing about September that even the leaves start blushing and turning red. ↗

— Jarod Kintz

#embarrassing #fall #funny #humor #leaves

Y cuando nos separamos, es otoño en mi corazón. ↗

— LaVyrle Spencer

#autumn #love #november #otoño #love

In my own shire, if I was sad Homely comforters I had: The earth, because my heart was sore, Sorrowed for the son she bore; And standing hills, long to remain, Shared their short-lived comrade's pain. And bound for the same bourn as I, On every road I wandered by, Trod beside me, close and dear, The beautiful and death-struck year: Whether in the woodland brown I heard the beechnut rustle down, And saw the purple crocus pale Flower about the autumn dale; Or littering far the fields of May Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay, And like a skylit water stood The bluebells in the azured wood. Yonder, lightening other loads, The season range the country roads, But here in London streets I ken No such helpmates, only men; And these are not in plight to bear, If they would, another's care. They have enough as 'tis: I see In many an eye that measures me The mortal sickness of a mind Too unhappy to be kind. Undone with misery, all they can Is to hate their fellow man; And till they drop they needs must still Look at you and wish you ill. ↗

— A.E. Housman

#city #compassion #country #hate #home

Que sigue pagando el otono con tanto dinero amarillo? What does autumn go on paying for with so much yellow money? ↗

— Pablo Neruda

#money

It always is harder to be left behind than to be the one to go... ↗

— Brock Thoene

#goodbyes #sadness #truths #autumn