Comments about Aldous Huxley
Spring is past and over these many days,
Spring and summer. The leaves of September droop,
Yellowing afid all but dead on the patient trees.
Nor is there any hope in me. I walk
Slowly homeward. Night is as empty and dark
Behind my eyes as it is dark without
And empty round about me and over me.
Spring is past and over these many days;
But, looking up, suddenly I see