Autumn is here!
It is my absolute favourite season. Yes the others have their moments but autumn is definitely the best in my eyes.
In primary school, autumn was spent collecting conkers, being in competition with my classmates to see who could collect the most, using leaves and twigs for art projects, and kicking up leaves. Now I am older, I can appreciate the natural beauty of this season, bask in an autumnal glow and still spend my time kicking up the fallen leaves.
The colours are definitely the best thing; all those reds, yellows, burnt oranges and greens. The crisp crunchy leaves are a pretty close second.
I’m looking forward to spending the next few weeks layering up t-shirts with cardis and a scarf; and I have plenty of pretty scarves to choose from (last time I counted, I had 41 of them). I’m looking forward to the sunny autumn days, where it’s not too hot and not too cold, and I’m hoping that there will be days when it is raining but the sun is still shining too, that is my favourite kind of weather. And of course I’m looking forward to kicking up the leaves, that will always be the perfect autumn past time.
There’s really not much to say about autumn besides what I’ve already mentioned about the colours, the leaves and weather that I love, so I’ve decided to include a poem that is an ode to the changing seasons. Of course, it has to be from the Romantic period of the 18th century, I did study it at uni after all…
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.