At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.

– Rainer Maria Rilke – Letters on Cézanne

Flowers, cold from the dew,

And autumn’s approaching breath …

In their nights, fragrantly resinous,

Entwined with delightful mystery …

But in a whirlwind of sound and fire …

They will die, faintly fragrant still.

And, impelled by faithful longing …

Love will gather their rotting remains.

– Anna Akhmatova –