I like spring, but it is too young. I like summer, but it is too proud.
So I like best of all autumn, because its leaves are
a little yellow, its tones mellower, its colors richer, and it is tinged
a little with sorrow. Its golden richness speaks not
of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer, but
of the mellowness and kindly wisdom of approaching age.
It knows the limitations of life and is content.
“—a place where thought can take its shape as quietly in the mind as water in a pitcher, or a man can be
safely without thought
—see the day begin
and lean back,
a simple wakefulness filling
the spaces among the leaves.”