The tendency of modern science is to close this gate—though it can never stop the search for it—the vague desire after some kind of communication, some kind of poetic identification with the soul that reveals itself through the rolling year, the mysterious presence that is felt to lie behind the outbuddings of spring, the wealth and greenery of summer, with all its whisperings and music and rippling laughter, the blue of autumn, with its fruitage, its expansive horizons, its glory veiling temporary decay.
Source: wiktionary