Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams."

Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing."

Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and she was a blade of grass.

And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams."

Autumn leaves scattered among blades of grass.

Heat lingers As days are still long; Early mornings are cool While autumn is still young. Dew on the lotus Scatters pure perfume; Wind on the bamboos Gives off a gentle tinkling. I am idle and lonely, Lying down all day, Sick and decayed; No one asks for me; Thin dusk before my gates, Cassia blossoms inch deep.

The scent of wisteria, Cymbidium, lotus blossom, and cassia buds drifting on a breeze through gently swaying bamboo reeds.

I Bientôt nous plongerons dans les froides ténèbres; Adieu, vive clarté de nos étés trop courts! J'entends déjà tomber avec des chocs funèbres Le bois retentissant sur le pavé des cours.

Tout l'hiver va rentrer dans mon être: colère, Haine, frissons, horreur, labeur dur et forcé, Et, comme le soleil dans son enfer polaire, Mon coeur ne sera plus qu'un bloc rouge et glacé.

J'écoute en frémissant chaque bûche qui tombe L'échafaud qu'on bâtit n'a pas d'écho plus sourd. Mon esprit est pareil à la tour qui succombe Sous les coups du bélier infatigable et lourd.

Il me semble, bercé par ce choc monotone, Qu'on cloue en grande hâte un cercueil quelque part. Pour qui? — C'était hier l'été; voici l'automne! Ce bruit mystérieux sonne comme un départ.

II J'aime de vos longs yeux la lumière verdâtre, Douce beauté, mais tout aujourd'hui m'est amer, Et rien, ni votre amour, ni le boudoir, ni l'âtre, Ne me vaut le soleil rayonnant sur la mer.

Et pourtant aimez-moi, tendre coeur! soyez mère, Même pour un ingrat, même pour un méchant; Amante ou soeur, soyez la douceur éphémère D'un glorieux automne ou d'un soleil couchant.

Courte tâche! La tombe attend; elle est avide! Ah! laissez-moi, mon front posé sur vos genoux, Goûter, en regrettant l'été blanc et torride, De l'arrière-saison le rayon jaune et doux!

I Soon we will sink in the frigid darkness Good-bye, brightness of our too short summers! I already hear the fall in distress Of the wood falling in the paved courtyard.

Winter will invade my being: anger, Hatred, chills, horror, hard and forced labor, And, like the sun in its iced inferno, My heart is but a red and frozen floe.

I hear with shudders each weak limb that falls. The scaffold will have no louder echo. My spirit is like a tower that yields Under the tireless and heavy ram blow.

It seems, lulled by this monotonous sound, Somewhere a coffin is hastily nailed, For whom? Summer yesterday, autumn now! This mysterious noise sounds like a farewell.

II I love the greenish light of your long eyes, Sweet beauty, but all is bitter today. Nothing, not love, the boudoir or the hearth Is dearer than the sunshine on the sea.

Still love me, tender heart! Be a mother Even to the ingrate, to the wicked, Lover, sister, ephemeral sweetness Of fall's glory or of the setting sun.

Short-lived task! The tomb awaits, merciless. Ah! Let me, my head resting on your knees, Savor, regretting the white hot summer, The autumn's last rays yellow and tender.

The scent of the year's fall and the setting sun, ominous and foreboding: dried leaves, charred wood, blood musk, amber, khus, and Nicotiana tabacum.

In Bolivia, many people hold to the tradition of keeping the skulls of their ancestors with them in their homes, caring for their remains. It is believed that each person has seven souls, and one of those souls stays with the skull after death, enabling a spirit to grant protection and prophetic dreams to their descendants, and to bless their families with good health and prosperity.

The Bolivian Fiesta de las Ñatitas, or Dia de los Ñatitas, is a day of honor for these ancestors. Their skulls are dressed with fragrant blossoms, and offerings of cocoa leaves, alcohol, and cigarettes are made.

White sandalwood, beeswax, and frankincense crowned by hydrangea, rose, and kantuta blossoms, dressed with tobacco, cocoa leaves and flowers from the sacred Cactus of the Four Winds.

A tribute to a somewhat nefarious and truly notorious ingredient in New Orleans spellcrafting. It is employed in hoodoo rootwork for various reasons, primarily in spells of protection, "tricking" your enemies, binding, and even love magick. The graves are chosen based on the type of working, and are determined by the type of spirit that lies there and the manner of their demise. Payment is always required in the form of offerings to the deceased. This is the scent of pure graveyard dust, spattered with grave loam and dusted lightly with tombstone moss.

On All Saints Day, Spanish families visit their loved ones in the cemeteries, keeping vigil throughout the evening, saying prayers for the dead. Family burial plots are cleaned and tended, and graves are adorned with gladiolas, chrysanthemums, and roses. Bone-shaped pastries called Saint's Bones, or the Bones of the Holy, are baked and shared in honor of the souls in Purgatory, and to remind us of those who no longer share our repast, but with whom we one day hope to be reunited with again.

Orange-glazed cake, dotted with anise seed, and filled with custard, set beside a bouquet of celebratory funeral flowers.

There was three men come out o' the west their fortunes for to try, And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn must die, They plowed, they sowed, they harrowed him in, throwed clods upon his head, And these three men made a solemn vow, John Barleycorn was dead.

Barley, beer, blood, and whiskey.

Withered vines, gnarled trees, twilight crows, river flowing beneath the little bridge, past someone's home. The wind blows from the west where the sun sets, it blows across the ancient road, across the bony horse across the despairing man who stands at heaven's edge. A desolate scent, dusty, bleak, and withered: old wood, burnt brown sandalwood, and twisted vines.

Known as the Mistress of Bones and the Lady of the Dead, she is the Queen of Mictlan, the Aztec Underworld, who still presides over today's Day of the Dead rituals. Sometimes known now as La Huesuda, she brings peace and joy to the spirits of the deceased, and blesses the living who do honor to those who have passed before them.

Copal, precious woods, South American spices, agave nectar, cigar tobacco, and roses.

Pumpkin with black musk, leather accord, tonka, teak, orange wood, and opoponax.

Pumpkin with pink grapefruit, lemon verbena, yuzu, lime, parsley, and mint.

Pumpkin with white sage, cherry tobacco, honey, smoky vanilla, cedar, and pine.

Pumpkin with cranberry, strawberry, red musk, red rose, rosehip, frankincense, fig, jasmine, and carnation.

Truly the scent of autumn itself -- damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.

Terminal sugar rush. A little goblin's candy bag, upended.

Smushed candy corn, rock candy dust, marshmallow gunk, strawberry goo, spun blue sugar, globs of salt water taffy, and lint.

Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

    Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;

Conspiring with him how to load and bless

    With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,

    And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
            To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
    With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,

            For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

    Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

    Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;

Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,

    Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
            Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:

And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep

    Steady thy laden head across a brook;
    Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
            Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?

    Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -

While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

    And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

    Among the river sallows, borne aloft
            Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

    Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
    The red-breat whistles from a garden-croft;
            And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.<br /><br />Mist and mellow fruitfulness: mist-swirled, moss-covered bark and dry red leaves, apple pulp and knotty galangal, with poppy juice and nutmeat.