Inevitably there comes a time in our life

When the innocence of spring is a memory

And the exuberance of summer—a song

Whose echoes faintly remain in mid air;

When, as we all look out on our life,

The problem is not how to grow but

How to live truly, not how to strive but

How to enjoy the precious moments,

Not how to squander our energy but

How to conserve it in preparation for

The coming winter, without dissipation.

A sense of having arrived somewhere,

Of having settled and found out desired;

A sense of having achieved something

Is also precious little compared

With its past plenty, but still it is something,

Like an autumn mountain slope shorn

Of the summer glory but retaining as it is,

And what’s more, will firmly endure.

I would prefer spring, but it’s too young;

I’d like upgrowth of summer, but, alas,

It’s too proud for me; therefore,

I like best of all autumn, its initial period,

Because its leaves are readily yellowish,

Its tone is mellower, its colours are richer,

And it is tinged a little bit with sorrow,

Granting us premonition of untimely end.

Its golden ripeness and surplus richness

Speaks not of the innocence of springtime,

Nor of the power of summer but

Of the mellowness and sagely wisdom

Of approaching ageing and imminence—

It knows the limits of life and is fully content.

From a knowledge of those limitations

And its wide experience, in the ascendant,

A symphony of tints and colours emerges,

Which is richer than of any others:

Its green speaking of vigour and strength,

Its orange speaking of its golden contents,

And its purple indicating on decease

And unquestioning obedience to destiny.

And the pendent moon’s disc shines over it,

Its perfectly round brow seems maize yellow—

With reflections, but when the setting sun

Touches it with an evening glow,

It still laughs, and do it cheerfully,

With great enjoyment from within.

When an early mountain breeze brushes thru

The willows and sends their trembling leaves,

Dancing gaily, to the very ground,

You don’t even get your poor head around

Whether the song of the falling leaves

Is the song of laughter or of the farewell tears

At the very moment of departure. From of old

This song is merely known by the name of

“The Charm of Early Autumn,” and it sings about

The spirit of calmness, the material ripeness

And a subtle wisdom of reaping a harvest,

And it smiles at sadness itself and praises

The coming days of exhilarating environment.