Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
To-day I think Only with scents, - scents dead leaves yield, And bracken, and wild carrot's seed, And the square mustard field; Odours that rise When the spade wounds the root of tree, Rose, currant, raspberry, or goutweed, Rhubarb or celery; The smoke's smell, too, Flowing from where a bonfire burns The dead, the waste, the dangerous, And all to sweetness turns. It is enough To smell, to crumble the dark earth, While the robin sings over again Sad songs of Autumn mirth. " - A poem called DIGGING.
When I'm down on energy, I have these superfoods powders with supergreens, algae, spirulina, and wheat germ extract. Sometimes I have a course of vitamins. For example, in autumn I'm going to start shots of B12 and biotin. For me this is really important because I travel so much. My lifestyle is quite challenging and this is something that supplements me before winter starts, which is a difficult time for your body.
And getting married this autumn was certainly an additional incentive to spend rather more time in England.
It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive. The fetus bailed out without a parachute. It landed in the sideline Astroturf, so upsetting the cheerleaders that for the remained of the afternoon their rahs were more like squeaks.
Listen! the wind is rising, and the air is wild with leaves, we have had our summer evenings, now for October eves!
I trust in Nature for the stable laws Of beauty and utility. Spring shall plant And Autumn garner to the end of time. I trust in God,-the right shall be the right And other than the wrong, while he endures. I trust in my own soul, that can perceive The outward and the inward,-Nature's good And God's.
When, in the autumn of 1947, I was fired from the first and only job I have ever held, I wanted one thing out of life: to become a writer.
When autumn comes, it doesn't ask. It just walks in, where it left you last. And you never know, when it starts; until there's fog inside the glass around your summer heart.
Deep inside, we're still the boys of autumn, that magic time of the year that once swept us onto America's fields.
Through the dripping weeks that follow One another slow, and soak Summer's extinguished fire and autumn's drifting smoke.
Looking about I see no cherry blossoms And no crimson leaves A straw-thatched hut by a bay In the autumn dusk.
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.
Everyone goes through their winters and springs, and their summers and autumns.
The birds laugh loud and long together When Fashion's followers speed away At the first cool breath of autumn weather. Why, this is the time, cry the birds, to stay! When the deep calm sea and the deep sky over Both look their passion through sun-kissed space, As a blue-eyed maid and her blue-eyed lover Might each gaze into the other's face.
There are rainy days in autumn and stormy days in winter when the rocking chair in front of the fire simply demands an accompanying book.
In this autumn of 1919, in which I write, we are at the dead season of our fortunes.
Parting is a training streamer,Lingering like leaves in autumn.
In a world of universal poverty The philosophers alone will be fat Against the autumn winds In an autumn that will be perpetual.
Autumn in New York, why does it seem so inviting?