It's a mood, so traces of it should not linger.
Perhaps it's remembering a kind of past, of people and things fallen away like leaves in autumn? Or perhaps it's because of those people, those events, that one feels the gloomy spread of autumn, why check the calendar to see if fall is here already?
Death gleams convincingly; living seems by contrast bleak and fraught with danger. But life has its unevadable responsibilities. How heavy? How light? All are duty-binding. That person in the old story (Using One Orphan to Save Another) said, "To keep on living is hard, but sticking one's neck out to get chopped is easy. Brothers, let me do the easy part, and leave the hard part to you." Only here do life and death really seem like a fiery brand. Those to come will read their smiles in the last spark: they died with passion and without regret; they lived bearing up under tragedy.
When Death's footsteps pass, after a bout of shuddering we often feel the sudden lightness of release, so if the beauty of that endpoint really gets very distant, the sound of happiness may even reach you, I don't know. I guess that, no matter here or there, happiness is relative.
"Beauty is, too."
I don't dread death, but I don't approve of experimentation. The leaves fall, let them fall. The trees cast off their old clothes, but their roots still grip the source of life; their branches do not yield even to the winter snow.
The direction of the setting sun is a bright red, as alluring as a dream, and we will hasten there in the end. Before that, let us finish this most difficult journey through life.