Autumn, in his leafless bowers, is waiting for the…

And if there are no cars or planes, and if no one’s Uncle John is out in the wood lot west of town banging…

— Stephen King

My father was often impatient during March, waiting for winter to end, the cold to ease, the sun to reappear. March was an unpredictable…

— Tracy Chevalier

“I, who am perpetually making notes in the margin of my mind for some final statement, make this mark, waiting for some winter's evening.”

— Virginia Woolf

Once more the liberal year laughs out O'er richer stores than gems or gold: Once more with harvest song and shout Is nature's boldest…

— John Greenleaf Whittier

Love is a flower that grows in any soil, works its sweet miracles undaunted by autumn frost or winter snow, blooming fair and fragrant…

— Louisa May Alcott

“Every Autumn now my thoughts return to snow. Snow is something I identify myself with. Like my father, I am a snow person.”

— Charlie English

Spring comes with flowers, autumn with the moon, summer with the breeze, winter with snow. When idle concerns don't fill your thoughts, that's your…

— Wumen Huikai

In winter, play with the snow; in summer, play with the Sun! Do not wait for something to come; everything is already here! In…

— Mehmet Murat Ildan

This, at last, was where things were as they ought to be. Everything was in its place -- the tree, the earth underneath, the…

— Jean Liedloff

So all night long the storm roared on: The morning broke without a sun; In tiny spherule traced with lines Of Nature’s geometric signs,…

— John Greenleaf Whittier

The measured blood beats out the year's delay.

— Louise Bogan

The trees change their voices in autumn as well as their shapes. No longer do they whisper to one another in muffled tones as…

— Patience Strong

“FALL I've never liked orange not even a hint of yellow though that doesn't mean I'm derange, you know. but it's still a riddle…

— Kynna Claire

“Flowers that had bloomed brilliant from spring through autumn blackened under the killing frost.”

— Nora Roberts

The American spring is by no means so agreeable as the American autumn; both move with faltering step, and slow; but this lingering pace,…

— Frances Trollope