«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 leaves are a little yellow,
its tone mellower, its colors richer, and it is tinged a little with sorrow...
Its golden riches speak not of the innocence of spring, nor of the power of summer,
but of the mellowness and kingly wisdom of approaching age.
It knows the limitations of life and is content.»