October had come again,
and that year it was sharp and soon:
frost was early, burning the thick green on the mountain sides to massed brilliant hues of blazing colors,
painting the air with sharpness, sorrow, and delight—and with October.
Sometimes, and often, there was warmth by day, an ancient drowsy light, a golden warmth and pollenated haze in afternoon,
but over all the earth there was the premonitory breath of frost,
an exultancy for all the men who were returning,
a haunting sorrow for the buried men,
and for all those who were gone and would not come again.
(Thomas Wolfe)