On the Withering of Plants 



of the departing year, which burns slowly 

 away in long increasing beauty through 

 the solemn grandeur of October, till the 

 damp November mists come down like 

 a shroud, and then all is extinguished, 

 the last leaves shiver from the trees, and 

 the last ripe fruit drops pattering to the 

 earth. These relics do not tell us of a 

 dreary time, and the very sadness of 

 autumn is swallowed up in the sense of 

 its more than earthly loveliness. It is 

 as with the fall of music : it is passing 

 from us, yet it moves so sweetly that we 

 would not bid it stay. 



Nor is the feeling disagreeable when 

 the flower really serves to connect us 

 with an unknown past. When walking 

 in the Jura woods in early summer, I 

 have felt the intensest pleasure in starting 

 upon the faded wrecks of some unaccus- 

 tomed spring flowers, for the Jura spring 

 was unknown to me, and these seemed 

 dark entrances through which I could 

 catch some far-off glimpses of its beauty. 

 Again, we often find in summer that 

 our feeling is just the contrary to that 

 of which we have been speaking. Many 

 a bloom will pass too rapidly in that 

 crowded procession to permit more than 

 a glance at its most precious beauties. 



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