"To Autumn"

Fall is by far my favorite season. I love the crispness in the air, the slight tingle in my cheeks as I walk outside, the deep smell of the earth as its goods are harvested, the woody scent of firesides. I love the vibrant colors–deep reds, bright yellows, russet oranges all accented by the golden light that filters through the trees. I love the sounds–the crunch of the leaves under my feet, the coaches whistle and plays called at football games, the drum beats and horn blasts of the marching band practicing in the early morning. Some associate Fall with dying, but I see it more as a beginning. A new school year, the advent of the holiday season, a time to rest, reflect and draw closer to those around us.

In honor of the first day of Fall, I’d like to leave you with one of my favorite Fall poems, “To Autumn” by Keats. I think he says it much better than I ever can.

Blessings and Peace,

47. To Autumn


SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness,

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, 5
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease, 10
For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 15
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drows’d with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 25
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.