Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a

“Autumn arrives in early morning, but spring at the close of a winter day.” So spoke Elizabeth Bowen, weaving into her words a wisdom that is not only of seasons, but of the spirit of life itself. To the untrained ear, this quote may seem but a poetic turn of phrase. Yet to those who ponder deeply, it is a parable of time, of change, and of the rhythm by which the universe renews itself. In these words lies the truth that endings are not to be feared, and that beginnings often come not with a roar but with a whisper at the edges of darkness.

When Bowen declares that autumn arrives in early morning, she reveals that decline often comes quietly, when the world still carries the freshness of dawn. Autumn, the season of harvest and fading light, is the gentle herald of endings. To say it comes with morning is to recognize that loss often greets us when life feels young, when the day is just beginning. It is the reminder that impermanence is woven into the very fabric of beginnings, that even in the light of youth, the shadows of change stand nearby.

Yet she does not leave us in sorrow. For she adds: spring arrives at the close of a winter day. When cold has lingered longest, when darkness seems to have triumphed, then comes the turning. At the very moment when endurance feels spent, life surprises us with renewal. Just as the sun sets upon the final day of winter, spring stretches forth, soft and unstoppable, carrying the promise that no frost is eternal. Thus Bowen teaches us that hope often blooms in the hour when it is least expected.

The ancients knew this cycle well. In Egypt, the Nile would flood, destroying fields, drowning hopes, yet when the waters receded, the black silt they left behind made the land fertile again. Death gave way to life, loss to abundance. The people learned to trust the seasons, not to despair when the floods came, nor to forget gratitude when the harvest returned. In Bowen’s quote, we hear the same echo: endings and beginnings are not fixed, but braided together, each born from the other.

Consider also the story of Abraham Lincoln. His life was marked by repeated failures—defeat in elections, loss of business, personal grief. These were his autumn mornings, when decline came early, just as new hopes were stirring. Yet it was only after the long winter of struggle that he rose as President, guiding his nation through its darkest hours. His leadership was the spring at the close of a winter day, a renewal born from hardship, a blossoming that proved that endurance through trials yields new beginnings.

Bowen’s words, then, are not only about the seasons but about the rhythm of our own journeys. We all face autumns—times when decline comes sooner than we wished, when loss interrupts our morning. We all endure winters—long nights of doubt and hardship. But if we endure, if we keep watch until the close of that long day, we will find that spring is already at the threshold, waiting to step across with light and color.

The lesson for us is this: accept the autumns of your life with humility, for they remind you that nothing lasts forever. Endure the winters with patience, for they are the testing ground of the soul. And above all, look for the spring, for it will always come, even when the day seems most weary. Change is the law of the world, and he who understands it walks in peace.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, let this be your practice: when decline greets you in the freshness of your morning, do not despair. When hardship lingers through the long cold, do not surrender. Instead, hold to the faith that spring comes quietly, not with trumpets, but with the soft breaking of ice, the tender budding of branches. And remember always Bowen’s wisdom: life’s endings are but beginnings in disguise, and every winter carries within it the seed of spring.