The leaf blower blows.
But can not keep pace
With the fall of leaves.
The wise man knows
That the race
Of dead leaves
Must end in dust
On a grey
Autumn must come
Soon. Who will recall
Leaves that fall?
So many men.
Yet there are
Far more fallen leaves,
Than there are men.
I scent the early summer air,
Find a hint of autumn leaves.
Hold what will be gold
Once autumn calls, and leaves
To the ground.
For within this early summer air,
I scent the autumn hiding there.
An autumn bird
Ere the sky
Thought of spring,
And eternal night.
I smell the decay
On an autumn day.
I shall rhyme
For a time,
For fallen leaves
Do not deceive.
Late afternoon, in the churchyard,
A pattern of Autumn leaves
On the ground,
From my thought,
Which was not that profound.
On todays “The World this Weekend”, on BBC Radio 4, there was a piece regarding John Keat’s “To Autumn”. In it a poet and a local nature expert retrace Keat’s footsteps as they walk through the countryside that inspired the composition of “To Autumn”.
To listen to the piece (its about 20 minutes into the 30 minute programme) please follow this link, https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/m0008qgb. Please note, you will need to log-in to BBC sounds in order to listen or, if you don’t have an account, you will need to create one.
Below is Keat’s “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.
Someone has swept
The leaves to the side
Of the path.
Autumn has crept
Up on me, And I
Can not decide
Whether I ought
Can compose a rhyme
Can not be bought