For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together. For nature, it is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad.
I see, when I bend close, how each leaflet of a climbing rose is bordered with frost, the autumn counterpart of the dewdrops of summer dawns. The feathery leaves of yarrow are thick with silver rime and dry thistle heads rise like goblets plated with silver catching the sun.
Change is a measure of time and, in the autumn, time seems speeded up. What was is not and never again will be; what is is change.
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