In the desert, the slow quiet entrance of autumn is like breathing a sigh of relief — exhaling all the hot, stifling air built up over summer.
Here in this autumnal Spain
Adobes live with little rain,
And even crumbling seem to me
Sweeter than a spring can be
In any other place but this,
where an eternal autumn is.
– Witter Bynner (1881-1968)
On our way from Boston to New York by rail, we passed through a most lovely country, beautiful mountains covered with wood, interspersed with rivers, and lakes, the trees bending into the water; the foliage, with its autumn tints, is most beautiful; woods, mountains, lakes, all the way, which, with the variety of wildflowers, make one of the most superb of nature’s gardens. …We came down the Lake [ Lake George]…and round the islands, all of which being covered with underwood, in great variety, and displaying every shade of color, were most lovely.
― William Bliss, Glimpses of American Life and Scenery: Sketched in Letters and Diary of a Tour in the United States and Canada, During the Summer and Autumn of 1872
It was one of those perfect New York October afternoons, when the explosion of oranges and yellows against the bright blue sky makes you feel like your life is passing through your fingers, that you’ve felt this autumn-feeling before and you’ll probably get to feel it again, but one day you won’t anymore, because you’ll be dead.
— Sarah Dunn, Secrets to Happiness, 2009
It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. The rich colours of grass and earth were intensified by the mellow light of a sun almost warm enough for spring…
—P.D. James (1920-2014), A Taste for Death (1986)
For London…was of all cities in the world the most autumnal — its mellow brickwork harmonizing with fallen leaves and October sunsets, just as the etched grays of November composed themselves with the light and shade of Portland stone. There was a charm, a deathless charm, about a city whose inhabitants went about muttering, “The nights are drawing in,” as if it were a spell to invoke the vast, sprawling creature-comfort of winter.”
― James Hilton (1900-1954) Random Harvest (1941)
The Sussex lanes were very lovely in the autumn. I started going for long lone country walks among the spendthrift gold and glory of the year-end, giving myself up to the earth-scents and the sky-winds and all the magic of the countryside which is ordained for the healing of the soul.
— Monica Baldwin (1893–1975), I Leap Over the Wall: Contrasts and Impressions After Twenty-Eight Years in a Convent (1949)