“She'd always imagined an autumn wedding: russet leaves and black velvets and dancing to Fred Astaire.” ― Hazel Gaynor, The Cottingley Secret

 The dry dead leaves flit by with thin weird tunes,

Like failing murmurs of some conquered creed,
Graven in mystic markings with strange runes,
That none but stars and biting winds may read.
-Archibald Lampman