As the temperature declines, White Dew, the 15th solar term of the year, begins. It falls on September 7 and ends on September 22 this year.
Increased water that vapors in the air turns into small water drops at night as a consequence of significant temperature fluctuations, while morning sunshine makes the transparent water drops on flowers, grass and leaves look crystal clear and spotless.
According to Chinese traditions, one should put on a jacket to avoid catching a cold when White Dew begins. This solar term also forecasts the crop harvest in autumn, as the dew on crops marks a good harvest of rice according to ancient Chinese agricultural practices.
The behaviour of birds is also a sign of change of seasons. Wild geese fly to the south, as swallows fly north during White Dew. Birds begin to store up food, as the declined temperature indicates the incoming winter.
BGM:Home for the Holidays - TrackTribe
Read by Pan Huirui and Zou Minghao
An Autumn Reverie
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Through all the weary, hot midsummer time,
My heart has struggled with its awful grief.
And I have waited for these autumn days,
Thinking the cooling winds would bring relief.
For I remembered how I loved them once,
When all my life was full of melody.
And I have looked and longed for their return,
Nor thought but they would seem the same, to me.
The fiery summer burned itself away,
And from the hills, the golden autumn time
Looks down and smiles. The fields are tinged with brown—
The birds are talking of another clime.
The forest trees are dyed in gorgeous hues,
And weary ones have sought an earthy tomb.
But still the pain tugs fiercely at my heart—
And still my life is wrapped in awful gloom.
The winds I thought would cool my fevered brow,
Are bleak, and dreary; and they bear no balm.
The sounds I thought would soothe my throbbing brain,
Are grating discords; and they can not calm
This inward tempest. Still it rages on.
My soul is tost upon a troubled sea,
I find no pleasure in the olden joys—
The autumn is not as it used to be.
I hear the children shouting at their play!
Their hearts are happy, and they know not pain.
To them the day brings sunlight, and no shade.
And yet I would not be a child again.
For surely as the night succeeds the day,
So surely will their mirth turn into tears.
And I would not return to happy hours,
If I must live again these weary years.
I would walk on, and leave it all behind:
will walk on; and when my feet grow sore,
The boatman waits—his sails are all unfurled—
He waits to row me to a fairer shore.
My tired limbs shall rest on beds of down,
My tears shall all be wiped by Jesus’ hand;
My soul shall know the peace it long hath sought --
A peace too wonderful to understand.