Tuesday, 24 September 2013

Season of mist and mellow fruitfulness

Posted by Rosie

As I drove back from the bus stop this morning, there was mist hanging in the valley and a hare ran across the road in front of me.  Beautiful.  We rarely see hares in the summer and misty mornings are something very autumnal.  So although daytime temperatures are still soaring up into the mid twenties, there is no denying that we are now most definitely in the "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness"

I didn't have my camera with me on the school run but grabbed it as soon as I got back and snapped these early autumn pictures:

Autumn Sunrise

Dew on Cobweb

Charlotte
 
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-eaves 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 cider-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.
 
Keats (1795-1821)

2 comments :

  1. Thank you CiG - it was a lovely morning ... followed by daytime temperatures that reached 30 degrees!

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