"When all the world is old, lad,
And all the trees are brown;
And all the sport is stale, lad,
And all the wheels run down;
Creep home, and take your place there,
The old and spent among:
God grant you find one face there
You loved when all was young."
I protest indignantly against the idea that all the wheels are run
down; nor are the trees yet brown, for kindly autumn, to soften us
to the inevitable passing of summer, touches the trees with her
magic wand, and forthwith they blaze with crimson and russet-gold,
pale-gold and flaming copper-red.
In the mellow golden sunshine of the still October days it is
sometimes difficult to realise that the glory of the year has
passed beyond recall, though the sunshine has no longer the genial
warmth of July, and the more delicate flowers are already
shrivelled by the first furtive touches of winter's finger-tips.
Experience has taught us that the many-hued glory of autumn is
short-lived; the faintest breeze brings the leaves fluttering to
the ground in golden showers.
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