"Miles and miles of dead leaves, either drifting, wayward and restless, like living things that are feverish and sick, or lying in piled-up heaps, corpse-cold and motionless, entering, it might seem, with some ecstasy too deep to betray itself by the faintest quiver, the huge dark dumb mysterious process, reeking with sepulchre-sweet rot and fetid with lust-satisfying decay, of the enormous vegetable dissolution, out of which, autumn by recurrent autumn, the organic life of the earth is renewed." —
John Cowper Powys, Porius 
