So, each day, after our morning adoration of the sun, we would separate about our different ways and business.
The woods were already beginning to wear a wistful, dejected look.

There was a feeling of departure everywhere, a sense that the year's excitements were over.

The procession had gone by, and there was an empty, purposeless air of waiting-about upon things, a sort of despairing longing for something else to happen--and a sure sense that nothing more could happen till next year.

Every event in the floral calendar had taken place with immemorial punctuality and tragic rapidity.

All the full-blooded flowers of Summer had long since come and gone, with their magic faces and their souls of perfume.