It may be that I am a pessimist. For it’s spring, not autumn, that
makes me sad. Spring has always rightly been identified for (53) ______
youth, and the sorrows of youth are poignant and bitter. The
daffodils which challenge so proudly and splendidly the
boisterous March winds are soon shriveling and defeated, (54) ______
limply wrinkling to remind us of the inevitable ravages of life.
The world is urgent with bursting flower, with the wide (55) ______
exciting beauty of youth, but it is impetuous beauty of (56) ______
the senses racing impatiently into the florid and surfeited luxury
of summer. Here are no comfort and fulfillment, (57) ______
only passionate creation of transitory delight.
Autumn in contrast imposes severity. The heat and driness of (58) ______
summer have been transformed to a warm and contented
loveliness. Even the lingering summer of England, so often a
success of damp and chilly days, may mellow into a (59) ______
golden September. Mornings have a tang of exhilaration and the
evening sun sets red like a smoke-grey mist (60) ______
softens the outline of trees and houses. The early chill (61) ______
currents of approaching winter mingle with the
uncertain warmth of spring so that on dry days the air (62) ______
becomes alive with the freshness of a sun-dried garden after a
summer shower. Living becomes glorious.