autumn

poems for november

12:41 PM

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oak leaf, withered


"I like spring, but it is too young.
I like summer, but it is too proud.
So I like best of all autumn,
because its tone is mellower,
its colors are richer, 
and it is tinged with a little sorrow.
Its golden richness speaks not
of the innocence of spring,
nor the power of summer,
but of the mellowness 
and kindly wisdom of approaching age.
It knows the limitations of life
and its content."

I missed rustling walks on withered leaves, warm colored hills, roads in reddish and yellow frames, apple pie, hot chocolate behind a bistro's window, drizzling and umbrellas, mature words with an old friend.
      Hello November !

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