O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
Shakespeare??? William Blake???? Good grief...this has to stop...much more of this and people will think I'm actually cultured inder this bluff exterior...;-)
...there goes me street cred...;-)
Very fond of poetry old bean...but keep it quiet eh?
Very very busy driving instructing but please let me know when you are in town and if I can I'll pop along.
Thank you Dinners. Hate to admit it but I didn't know that one. Mention autumn and everyone knows Keats' Ode to Autumn. Should be in town some time in late November - Gun auction. Although I'm supposed to have a look at an ailing long case clock up there soon. I'll give you a yell when I know a bit more. Cheers, Mike.
I'm amazed 4D's, and delighted to read for the first time Billy Blake's 'To Autumn'. I've always loved Blake's verbal and pictorial artistry. I can't imagine how I managed to avoid finding this gem before. Thank you very much, your street cred is very high in Leicestershire, I shouldn't worry about its standing in Essex!
Hi Mike, Thanks for the reminder of my in-law's poem by the same name. I add it here so all your readers may readily share it.
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, 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.
3 comments:
To Autumn by William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
Shakespeare??? William Blake???? Good grief...this has to stop...much more of this and people will think I'm actually cultured inder this bluff exterior...;-)
...there goes me street cred...;-)
Very fond of poetry old bean...but keep it quiet eh?
Very very busy driving instructing but please let me know when you are in town and if I can I'll pop along.
Thank you Dinners. Hate to admit it but I didn't know that one. Mention autumn and everyone knows Keats' Ode to Autumn.
Should be in town some time in late November - Gun auction. Although I'm supposed to have a look at an ailing long case clock up there soon. I'll give you a yell when I know a bit more.
Cheers, Mike.
I'm amazed 4D's, and delighted to read for the first time Billy Blake's 'To Autumn'. I've always loved Blake's verbal and pictorial artistry. I can't imagine how I managed to avoid finding this gem before. Thank you very much, your street cred is very high in Leicestershire, I shouldn't worry about its standing in Essex!
Hi Mike,
Thanks for the reminder of my in-law's poem by the same name. I add it here so all your readers may readily share it.
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,
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.
John Keats
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