Ode to Autumn

I don’t know about “mellow”, but 2013 looks set to be a year of fruitfulness, with evidence across the village of abundant apples, sloes, pears, blackberries, raspberries, haws and rowan.  A bumper harvest, it seems.  Perhaps John Keats would have recognised this time – the sort of autumn he immortalised in his Ode to Autumn.  This is the first verse:

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.

The poem ends with the sounds of Autumn:

… 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.

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