The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere.
Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead;
They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit – William Cullen Bryant

O suns and skies and clouds of June, and flowers of June together. Ye cannot rival for one hour Octobers bright blue weather. – Helen Hunt Jackson