On Fall (defining the question)

Tell me, Galileo, of this silly poesy we call autumn. Tell me of its φυσικός: its interlocking clockwork; tell me of what Keats—that dripping Romantic—so delightfully mystified with his provocative magic. Tell me this, Galileo, and prove it to me; geometrically, if you must. Whichever method, I know that it will be a beautiful proof, for could there ever be a rapport more esthetically sublime than that of a proposition with its “Q.E.D.”?