“Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light.
But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen.
When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was though a young person died for no reason.
In those days, though, the spring always came finally but it was frightening that it had nearly failed.”
Ernest Hemingway, Moveable Feast