It may be that I am a pessimist. For it’s spring, not autumn, that makes me sad. Spring has always rightly been identified for (1) ______ youth, and the sorrows of youth are poignant and bitter. The daffodils which challenge so proudly and splendidly the boisterous March winds are soon shriveling and defeated, (2) ______ limply wrinkling to remind us of the inevitable ravages of life. The world is urgent with bursting flower, with the wide (3) ______ exciting beauty of youth, but it is impetuous beauty of (4) ______ the senses racing impatiently into the florid and surfeited luxury of summer. Here are no comfort and fulfillment, (5) ______ only passionate creation of transitory delight. Autumn in contrast imposes severity. The heat and driness of (6) ______ summer have been transformed to a warm and contented loveliness. Even the lingering summer of England, so often a success of damp and chilly days, may mellow into a (7) ______ golden September. Mornings have a tang of exhilaration and the evening sun sets red like a smoke-grey mist (8) ______ softens the outline of trees and houses. The early chill (9) ______ currents of approaching winter mingle with the uncertain warmth of spring so that on dry days the air (10) ______ becomes alive with the freshness of a sun-dried garden after a summer shower. Living becomes glorious.