The autumn is coming, or is here. There is no way to know. The farmer rushes, for he knows in his bones what is to come, as do we all. His daily exertions — never mighty, always steady — will yield their dividends if the cold dead hand of fortune does not intervene. One does not dwell on such things, except on the Sabbath, when you are not among them.

The fall is bittersweet for any man. The year is old enough to provide, but the reminder of the fresh strong exertions of spring, gone forever into the ground, are arrayed all around. The exhortation: “You will never see its like again” is the beginning of something, too.

What can you look upon, from a pinnacle, exactly?