Shed no tears for the break from night and look to the vault of day rising lofty on a shimmering dawn. Fields of spring gold have now given way to a yellowing fever that sweeps over the world as the harvest approaches. The autumn lays her curse on the summer, and the days withdraw behind all manner of shadowy nook. Such a bower I will find this day, and from within its cool comfort seek solace in an entreaty to the russet queen that the days will continue warm and safe. Though I do ask; why I should raise appeal for an accord when the entire world knows you have no intention to honour it. For the motion of the seasons rocks across the year in timeless grace and both sun and moon must always honour their kin. It is the natural order of things, and yet, I would wish things differently now bones shorten and weaken under the weighty veil of maturity. For the warm realm of the high days is the want of the aged. It is their winter dream and hearthside reverie and even now in the full height of summer, it is passing away again into memory.