Saturday, September 14, 2013

Seasons of mist and mellow fruitfulness

The way I remembered the first line was "yellow" fruitfulness. But somehow it wasn't mellow enough and something was troubling me. Here we go. It really is autumnal now and we have this heavy mist almost every morning. This is the view looking south from the house. It's an iPhone panorama of shots stitched together. This is the teensy version that Blogger displays. A single click on the picture should make it bigger.

Summer went so fast! So it really is autumn now! Today is my birthday; my granddaughter phoned and sang the Happy Birthday song to me. She is making a diorama about the Miwok Indians for school.

So here's the poem, by great and well-loved poet John Keats. Mellow instead of yellow.

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-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, circa


  1. Happy Birthday! Nice poem by Keats. Fall is my favorite season but it seems to go by too quickly.

    1. I'm with you about the TOO quickly. When you write haiku, autumnal season words always give that melancholy, yet fine, tinge.