Just after the death of the flowers,
And before they are buried in snow,
There comes a festival season,
When nature is all aglow;
Aglow with a mystical spendour,
That rivals the brightness of spring,
Aglow with a beauty more tender,
Than aught which fair summer could bring....

~Emeline B. Smith~

^{(I've tried to look up this person, but cannot find any reference to her other than death records.
The first 4 stanzas can be found as attributed to"Unknown Author")}

^{These .gifs were created for me by @coquiunlimited; many thanks}