“I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.” LittlesStillsLostAirSweetPrideCaughtHillsStemModestToesCurvesBudSobbingCoolingTaperingGoldfinches Book:Poetry Manuscripts at Harvard Source: Poetry Manuscripts at Harvard
“While we only look at Nature it is fair to say that Autumn is the end of the year; but it is still more true that Autumn is the beginning of the year.... Autumn is the time when in fact the leaves bud. Leaves wither because winter begins; but they also wither because spring is already beginning, because new buds are being made, as tiny as percussion caps out of which the spring will crack.... It is only an optical illusion that my flowers die in autumn; for in reality they are born.” YearsLooksMadeStillsEndsFactsRealityDiesBornFlowerSpringIllusionFairsWinterTinyAutumnCracksCapsBudPercussionOptical Illusions Author:Karel Capek