Autumn is coming. In the park the horse chestnut trees yield a small crop of conkers this year, but the leaves crop well and hearty. I dislike autumn because my thoughts turn to winter, when all is cold and when old men die. The words of a forgotten French song, I heard many years ago, run through my mind. I do not know who sang it or who wrote it, but the voice of the singer is deep and illustrious in the ears of my mind.
“Pourtant, que la montagne est belle
Comment peut-on s’imaginer
En voyant un vol d’hirondelles
Que l’automne vient d’arriver?”.
I think of winter, failing to enjoy the fruits of autumn. An Englishman wrote
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!