"The image of Time brought thoughts of mortality: of human beings,

facing outwards like the Seasons, moving hand in hand in

intricate measure: stepping slowly, methodically, sometimes a trifle

awkwardly, in evolutions that take recognisable shape:

or breaking into seeminly meaningless gyrations, while

partners disappear only to reappear again, once more giving pattern

to the spectacle: unable to control the melody, unable, perhaps,

to control the steps of the dance.” 

from A Question Of Upbringing: 

A Dance to the Music of Time

Anthony Powell

Autumn is here, meaning the garden is almost done

but there is still time for a few last looks.

A seasonal dance.

A  few moments to bask in the warm winds

and golden light.

"the distant pounding of centaurs' hoofs dying away,

as the last note of their conch trumpeted out over hyperborean seas.

Even the formal measure of the Seasons seemed suspended in the

wintery silence. "

from Hearing Secret Harmonies:

A Dance to the Music of Time

Anthony Powell