Beautiful features vanishing

As daylight becomes shorter and the nights get colder, my heart stays filled with joy watching my garden. I've noticed that at 6:30 pm, my usual time to observe, is dark now. "The sun goes home early and I'm left with the moon." (Field Notes 10/23). The garden seems different, it's dull. The work my family and I put in this garden seems like a waste of time to my family, but not to me. Yes, the asters are not bright purple anymore and the petals on the roses are completely brown, so what? My garden is still holding on tight. For example, the hierba buena is fighting strong against the cold, it is still dark green and is looking healthy. The leaves are a bit crispy, but it still has its own features, unlike the roses, whose petals are almost completely gone and the asters, that have lost the battle with Autumn because there are no more petals. The asters are plainly dark brown. I have to admit, the Asters are not attractive flowers anymore. I know the garden is colorless and it almost seems lifeless, but it's not just about the appearance, it's about the potential a garden has that shows the wonders of a garden. Slowly, the features will start vanishing completely, however, I am not upset because I know that the garden will show its beautiful features once again in the Springtime. The Death of the Flowers by William Cullen Bryant

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hills the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

Bryant, William. "The Death of the Flowers." Famous poets and poems. N.p. n.d. Web. 26 Oct. 2014