When, Lydia, our autumn arrives
With the winter it harbors, let's reserve
A thought, not for the future spring
    Which belongs to others,
Nor for the summer, whose deceased we are,
But for what remains of what is passing:
The present yellow that the leaves live
    And that makes them different
        ,------------.
    TT-"    _     _   "-TT
    ||     (o\---/o)    ||
    II      ( _ _ )     II
    ||__,--.(_(Y)_),--._||
    |/  "--"  ___  "--" \|
    /      ,-"   "-.     \
   /    _,~.      ,~._    \
  /   /(ooO )\__/( Ooo)\   \
 /_,~"_((_) )____( (_))_`~._\
(       "--"      "--"       )
 )__________________________(
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