I like spring, but it is too young.
I like summer, but it it too proud.
So I like best of all autumn, because its tones is mellower,
its colours are richer, and it is tingled with a little sorrow.
Its golden richness speaks not of the innocense 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.