Every season hath its pleasures

AUTUMN

Spring and Autumn

By Thomas Moore

Every season hath its pleasures;

Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn's soberer time.
So Life's year begins and closes;
Days tho' shortening still can shine;
What tho' youth gave love and roses,
Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me,
All the Spring looked coy and shy,
Yet herself in Autumn sought me,
When the flowers were all gone by.
Ah, too late;--she found her lover
Calm and free beneath his vine,
Drinking to the Spring-time over,
In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying,
To their flight our pleasures suit,
Nor regret the blossoms dying,
While we still may taste the fruit,
Oh, while days like this are ours,
Where's the lip that dares repine?
Spring may take our loves and flowers,
So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.

  The days are drawing in and there is a coolness in the mornings and evenings; it's Autumn.  It may be sad to see the end of summer yet there is a feeling of excitement at this time of year which is hard to explain.  I suppose the coming of a change brings excitement; jumpers are pulled from the depths of drawers, the crackle of a fire is heard again on an evening, the smell of warming stew or soup on the stove.  It certainly makes you appreciate the comforts of home and food when the cooler weather comes.  When you're out on a walk, the air making your skin tingle and nose go red, the thought of home is a pleasure.  There is something so lovely about going for walks in autumn, especially on a bright fresh day.  The colours are so wonderful with the leaves, fruit and berries so vibrant and glowing with reds, oranges and golds, the grass so green from frequent showers and in the distance bare twigs blending into a hazy purple and fields of stubble a rich gold.  The smell of damp earth and leaves, wood smoke and cidery-ness of decaying fruit all conjure up autumn.  The early closing in of the day gives way to evenings spent by the fire; talking, reading and playing games and puzzles.    

  We like doing Charles Wysocki puzzles on cold windy days or in the long evenings; commandeering the dining room table close to the stove.  Here is a painting by Charles Wysocki which we have as a puzzle and is one of our favourites to do.

Another favourite

In the other gardens

And all up the vale,

From the autumn bonfires

See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over

And all the summer flowers,

The red fire blazes,

The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

Robert Louis Stevenson

Autumn Fires.

To Autumn

By 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;