Poor dry, musty flowers! Who would believe you ever danced in the wind, drank in the evening dews, and spread sweet fragrance on the air? A touch now breaks your brittle leaves. Your odors are like attic herbs, or green tea, or moldy books. Your forms are bent and flattened into every ugly and distorted shape.

Autumn Leaves: Original Pieces in Prose and Verse, My Herbarium (p. 130), John Bartlett. 1853