To Autumn : With John Keats

 

I've been in the mood for poetry as of late. Autumn does that to me - having a sudden desire to curl up with a cuppa and a classic. The sudden fascination in looking out the window to observe the wind gently plucking the leaves one by one overtakes me. To linger. To learn by sight and prose. To me, it's calming and feels sophisticated...

John Keats, an English Romantic Poet in the early 1800's, had a way with words. And recently, I've been pleasure reading some of his work. His personal story is also fascinating (such as maintaining company with other poets like Percy Bysshe Shelley and William Wordsworth). And while I know this is different than my normal Tuesday post, this is an honest peek into my more nerdy world as the seasons continue to change. So without further adieu, I give you To Autumn by John Keats...

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,
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,
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;
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;
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,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Scouring through poems is a fairly new hobby for me - though Tennyson has always been a favorite (I have a book of his from the 1800's!). But if any of you enjoy poetry, please tell me your favorites in the comments so I can check them out too! And as Thanksgiving and the rest of the holiday season approaches, remember to slow down and look outside. There is much to savor.

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

Always,
--Tara M.