Sunday 15 September 2013

Season of mists and mellow fruitfullness

John Keats. 1795–1821
  
627. 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 moss'd cottage-trees,         5
  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,  10
  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;  15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
  Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
    Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
  Steady thy laden head across a brook;  20
  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 barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day,  25
  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;  30
  Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 
  The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; 
    And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

 As we harvest our garden my thoughts turn to the above poem that i had to study and learn so many years ago.  Whats sad is how much i had forgotten.  We have a bumper crop of grapes and a good number of apples.  Today even saw me dashing through the rain to pull rhubarb to make crumble.



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