Thursday, September 18, 2008

Revision : Another Seasonal Cycle Closes In...

I think you guys would definitely like the fall collage that this link leads on to...I just loved it !

I keep on telling K that I too want to be photographed amidst the yellowing maple leaves that are so characteristic of the onset of fall...he keeps on assuring me that we will. I don't feel as optimistic, especially since the trees surrounding our apartment seem to be intending to turn white directly from the green they now flaunt. At this stage, everyone seems to have been photographed amidst fall hues in a classic tableau except me. I hate it. Never felt so excluded in my life. My New Hampshire photos only serve to remind me that I might have had a picturesque capture of ourselves in the full flush of autumn, had we been there about a fortnight later or so...well, here's to the season, in any case and a revised celebration of ( who else and what else ?! ) but the eternal Keats ...

Ode 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 mossed 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'erbrimmed 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-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

And we finally did do it in the Catskill Mountains !

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