by Henri Frederic Amiel
Walked for half an hour in the garden.
A fine rain was falling, and the landscape was that of autumn.
The sky was hung with various shades of gray, and mists hovered about the distant mountains - a melancholy nature.
The leaves were falling on all sides like the last illusions of youth under the tears of irremediable grief.
A brood of chattering birds were chasing each other through the shrubberies, and playing games among the branches, like a knot of hiding schoolboys.
Every landscape is, as it were, a state of the soul, and whoever penetrates into both is astonished to find how much likeness there is in each detail.