Fluted dahlias, scarlet poppies, and all the flowers that exhale their spice in the last hot days of August burned incense for them.

Their very hair was laden with odor, their fingers flower-sweet, their minds took on the many colors of their exquisite surroundings.
And it was part of this drama of love and scent and color that they should see it slowly assume the more ethereal loveliness of September, and watch the subtle amber rays shine through the thinning boughs, and feel that all nature was becoming idealized.

The birds were then mostly silent.

They had left their best notes on the hawthorns and among the roses; but the crickets made a cheerful chirrup, and the great brown butterflies displayed their richest velvets, and the gossamer-like insects in the dreamy atmosphere performed dances and undulations full of grace and mystery.

And all these marvelous changes imparted to love that sweet sadness which is beyond all words poetic and enchaining.
Yet however sweet the hours, they pass away, and it is not much memory can save from the mutable, happy days of love.