"It's mornings like this; The stingy sun trying to hold back Even the warmth of its reflection Flashing coldly In the lake. When November leaves drop in sudden gusts, Like a red and yellow flock of birds Swooping at once to ground. Or even nights: When winds reach wet hands To take you spinning with random paper Down back street gutters, under straining bridges To clogged rivers. It's this: The time of year, along with spring, When poets must take care Not to sing the same old songs Stolen from tribal memory." - Thomas R. Drinkard

"Pleasures lie thickest where no pleasures seem: There's not a leaf that falls upon the ground But holds some joy of silence or of sound, Some spirits begotten of a summer dream." - Laman Blanchard

"Even if something is left undone, everyone must take time to sit still and watch the leaves turn." - Elizabeth Lawrence

"The body is like a November birch facing the full moon And reaching into the cold heavens. In these trees there is no ambition, no sodden body, no leaves, Nothing but bare trunks climbing like cold fire! My last walk in the trees has come. At dawn I must return to the trapped fields, To the obedient earth. The trees shall be reaching all the winter. It is a joy to walk in the bare woods. The moonlight is not broken by the heavy leaves. The leaves are down, and touching the soaked earth, Giving off the odors that partridges love." - Robert Bly, Solitude Late at Night in the Woods

"When the trees their summer splendor Change to raiment red and gold,When the summer moon turns mellow,And the nights are getting cold;When the squirrels hide their acorns,And the woodchucks disappear;Then we know that it is autumn,Loveliest season of the year."- Carol L. Riser, Autumn

"For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad." - Edwin Way Teale

Were I called on to define, very briefly, the term Art, I should call it 'the reproduction of what the Senses perceive in Nature through the veil of the soul.' The mere imitation, however accurate, of what is in Nature, entitles no man to the sacred name of 'Artist.' - Edgar Allan Poe

Every artist dips his brush in his own soul, and paints his nature into his pictures...Henry Ward Beecher

"Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! Heap high the golden corn! No richer gift has Autumn poured From out her lavish horn!" - John Greenleaf Whittier