Spring is past and over these many days, <br />Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop, <br />Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees. <br />Nor is there any hope in me. I walk <br />Slowly homeward. Night is as empty and dark <br />Behind my eyes as it is dark without <br />And empty round about me and over me. <br />Spring is past and over these many days; <br />But, looking up, suddenly I see <br />Leaves in the upthrown light of a street lamp shine <br />Clear and luminous, young and so transparent, <br />They seem but the coloured foam of air, green fire, <br />No more than the scarce embodied thoughts of leaves; <br />And it is spring within that circle of light. <br />Oh, magical brightness ! the old leaves are made new. <br />In the mind, too, some coloured accident <br />Of beauty revives and makes all young again. <br />A chance light meaninglessly shines and it is spring.<br /><br />Aldous Huxley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/september-63/
