THE FLOWERS OF 

 FALL 



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HE flowers of fall have a 

 charm peculiarly their own 

 and quite unlike that which 

 invests those of the spring 

 and summer. They are not 

 less beautiful, but there is 

 about them a sedateness, an 

 air of repose, befitting the season, as if they 

 realized that the end of things, for them, is near 

 at hand, that the time had come to give up the 

 ambitions of the months when there is a long 

 prospect ahead of growth and development. 

 The feeling is akin to the sense of rest and 

 peace which characterizes human life in its sere 

 and yellow leaf, with the consciousness of work 

 well done and repose well earned. I do not 

 know that I can better describe the impression 

 which always comes to me at this time than 

 in this little sonnet, written some years ago, 

 after a tramp across the fields and over the 

 hills on an October day, which was in itself a 

 perfect poem: 



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