wistful autumn

Every blade in the field, every leaf in the forest, lays down its life in its season, as beautifully as it was taken up. It is the pastime of a full quarter of the year. Dead trees, sere leaves, dried grass and herbs—are not these a good part of our life? And what is that pride of our autumnal scenery but the hectic flush, the sallow and cadaverous countenance of vegetation? its painted throes, with the November air for canvas? — Henry David Thoreau, letter to Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1842 March 11th

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yellow spider

yellow spider | brother, sister | mewithoutYou

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