“Every leaf speaks bliss to me, fluttering from the autumn tree.” (-Emily Bronte)

The stripped and shapely
Maple grieves
The ghosts of her
Departed leaves.
The ground is hard,
As hard as stone.
The year is old,
The birds are flown.
And yet the world,
In its distress,
Displays a certain
Loveliness—

(-John Updike)