"Seasons of Mist and Mellow Fruitfulness...."

It has been sunny all day with a nice, warm breeze blowing. There is a chance for showers tomorrow afternoon and then cooler weather will set in for the remainder of the week, so I'm going to try to enjoy as much of this day as I can.

Yesterday was much like today. The kids and I took a drive through some parts of Harrison County and enjoyed the Fall colors -- such as they are! At least we did get a little bit of color change this year -- finally! More than I expected at least.

I've been washing some bedclothes this afternoon and getting them out on the clothesline. It's been a bit of a lazy Sunday afternoon but I have accomplished a few things. I just posted a few items on Freecycle, and hopefully I'll get rid of a lot of things that way this week.

Well, I just wanted to pop in and say hello and wish everyone a great Sunday. I leave you with the entire poem "To Autumn" by John Keats.

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,

  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 twinèd 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 barrèd 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.

Thanks to Donna for the graphic.

Tags: Autumn, John Keats

Written by helmswondermom Blog about this entry

This entry has 16 comments: (Add your own)

#16 Comment from rdautumnsage
11/5/07 11:23 AM | Permalink

Does it get any better than that? What a wonderful vision, Autumn colors, Sheets fresh off the clothes line and John Keats. Thanks for the wonderful post, I needed the feel good vibe. (Hugs) Indigo
http://journals.aol.com/rdautumnsage/ravens-lament/
#15 Comment from springangel235
11/5/07 9:53 AM | Permalink

I miss having a clothes line so much...last one I had was 26 years ago, another home. Sounded like a lovely weekend...love Fall ...you take care...hugs and love,
Joyce
PS...I reset my alerts for your journal...was not getting them.
#14 Comment from wwfbison
11/5/07 9:20 AM | Permalink

I love to hang my bedding in the fresh air, I love the smell!!! Your day sounds lovely. We didn't have too much color here in PA this year, it was quite disappointing.
Lisa
http://journals.aol.com/wwfbison/life-on-a-bison-farm
#13 Comment from lanurseprn
11/5/07 12:01 AM | Permalink

What a wonderful Sunday you had! I've thought about starting to use the clothes line for sheets. It's so much fresher. I have just used the dryer though.
Enjoy your evening.
Pam
#12 Comment from amldwilson@...
11/4/07 11:53 PM | Permalink

I'm glad its nice up there where you are. Its been really nice here too. I love the warm days but cool evenings. Perfect for sitting outside on the patio next to a fireplace! :) Blessings, Lynn
http://onewayoranother-wilson.blogspot.com/

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Dusty Pages Public Journal
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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,
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 twinèd 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 barrèd 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.

Dusty Pages

"Seasons of Mist and Mellow Fruitfulness...."