Showing posts with label Autumn. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Autumn. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 22, 2021

First Day of Fall 2021


Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?
Autumn Song, Dante Gabriel Rosetti

Tuesday, September 22, 2020

First Day of Fall


"Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf,
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay."
Robert Frost, 1923

Fall is my favorite season, and I'm so looking forward to celebrating here up north.  We've noticed that we have a maple tree in our front yard, so we are definitely looking forward to the leaves changing color, the cooler weather, the crispness in the air.  It already has started to feel like fall, and I am all in for it.  

We're going to seek out corn mazes, covered bridges, hayrides and the like.  We're going to celebrate this season in our new environment. 

I hope you are able to do the same.

Monday, September 23, 2019

Autumn

Lyric night of the lingering Indian Summer,
Shadowy fields that are scentless but full of singing,
Never a bird, but the passionless chant of insects,
Ceaseless, insistent.

The grasshopper’s horn, and far-off, high in the maples,
The wheel of a locust leisurely grinding the silence
Under a moon waning and worn, broken,
Tired with summer.

Let me remember you, voices of little insects,
Weeds in the moonlight, fields that are tangled with asters,
Let me remember, soon will the winter be on us,
Snow-hushed and heavy.

Over my soul murmur your mute benediction,
While I gaze, O fields that rest after harvest,
As those who part look long in the eyes they lean to,
Lest they forget them.

Sara Teasdale, September Midnight, 1914