#to autumn

[adventuresofalgy]

The following morning was a great deal calmer, for the hoolie* had eventually blown itself out, after roaring and raging the whole day long. Algy often thought that these winds were just clumsy big bullies, for they swaggered about, blustering and buffeting the bushes and trees for hours on end, but then sneaked away sheepishly and vanished into thin air when they found that they had achieved nothing more than a scattering of a few leaves and twigs about the landscape.

Nevertheless Algy was glad that the hoolie had passed, and even more pleased to find that the new day was not only calm, but more or less dry, and - at times - even sunny, although the wind was uncomfortably cold.

So without further ado he fluffed up his feathers and flew back to the cotoneaster bush, which had apparently suffered very little harm. Settling down to resume his feast in comfort, he was suddenly reminded of a poem:

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst 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 on 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.

[Algy is quoting the poem To Autumn by the late 18th/early 19th century visionary English poet William Blake.]

*“It’s blowing (or blawin') a hoolie,” is a phrase that is supposedly derived from the Orkney Scots word ‘hoolan’. Hoolan describes a strong gale wind." Please see yesterday's post for a demonstration. Algy was interested to note that hoolie is also an abbreviation for hooligan 😀

[gatheryepens]

Untitled by me // Autumn Landscape by Vincent van Goh // To Autumn by John Keats // we fell in love in october by girl in red // Wooded Path in Autumn by Hans Andersen Brendekilde // quote by Friedrich Nietzsche // Sweater Weather by The Neighbourhood //

[galerie-etheree]

[shadowdancingpoetry]

[p-isforpoetry]

"To Autumn" by John Keats ‖ Damian Lewis (2023.09.23)

National Theatre's "A Poet for Every Day of the Year" - dedicated to Helen McCrory (2022.03.03)

You can watch the full event here

Introduced by Allie Esiri. The actors are Damian Lewis, Simon Russell Beale, Fay Ripley, Danny Sapani and Lesley Sharp.

[sinusproblem]

New post on the drawing blog talking about John Keats' poem, "To Autumn." Dig in you lovey doves. Link below to subscribe.

patreon.com/patrickdanielkeck

[wisdomofcheer]

"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..."

[autumnmylife]

To Autumn-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.

[spicymochi]

little pumpkin thief

[luxjii]

I wonder what Mae got up to this Harfest 🎃🍂

[adventuresofalgy]

Algy knew it… it was going to rain again! And very soon now, if he wasn't much mistaken. Yesterday's sunshine had vanished just as quickly as it had come, and although the new day had started in a reasonably bright sort of way, it had soon changed its mind and clouded over, and now the sky was turning darker and darker by the minute.

So Algy flew up into the bushes and wallowed happily in a sea of beautiful hydrangeas, before they became truly awash once more. Somewhere behind him a robin was trilling its autumn song, and Algy knew that the seasons had turned once again. Hoping that perhaps the coming months would bear more resemblance to Keats' famous poem than to the typical West Highland autumn he knew only too well, Algy recited the verses out loud to the bees who were busily investigating the flowers all around him, although they seemed too intent on their work to pay much attention:

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,   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.

[Algy is of course reciting one of the most famous poems in English literature, To Autumn, by the early 19th centure English poet John Keats.]

[ionomycin]

temple at the end of the road

[ex0skeletal-undead]

Be sure to keep it lit... by Abigail Larson on Instagram for the Over the Garden Wall show at Gallery Nucleus

[futuristic-koala]