The Woods in Autumn
It is not true that the close of a life which ends in a natural fashion-
--life which is permitted to put on the display of death and to go out in glory-
--inclines the mind to rest. It is not true of a day ending nor the passing of
the year, nor of the fall of leaves. Whatever permanent, uneasy question is
native to men, comes forward most insistent and most loud at such times. There
are still places where one can feel and describe the spirit of the falling of
At Fall, the sky which is of so delicate and faint a blue as to contain
something of gentle mockery, and certain more of tenderness, presides at the
fall of leaves. There is no air, no breath at all. The leaves are so light
that they sidle on their going downward, hesitating in that which is not void to
them, and touching at last so intangible to the earth with which they are to
merge, that the gesture is much gentler than a greeting, and even more discreet
than a discreet touch. They make a little sound, less than the least of sounds.
No bird at night in the marshes rustles so slightly, no men, though men are the
most refined of living beings, put so passing a stress upon their sacred
whispers or their prayers. The leaves are hardly heard, but they are heard just
so much that men also, who are destined at the end to grow glorious and to die,
look up and hear them falling.
There is an infinite amount of qualities of describing...