Autumn is, on balance my favourite season. I love crunching through the newly fallen leaves, it feels like walking through a lovely thick rug. As I sit here I can almost smell the amazing scents of autumn, the smell of fallen leaves brought to my nostrils by a gentle breeze. I’ve happy memories of collecting acorns and conkers with my grandfather. I remember breaking the smooth outer shell of acorns to find the seed inside. I recollect picking up conkers, putting them away in drawers and checking, periodically to see if they had gone hard enough to thread string through them.
I love the way in which Keat’s personifies autumn, “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-reaped 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”. One is reminded of a beautiful lady who, by her actions is (and at the same time) creates the season of autumn. In the past ancient peoples worshiped the seasons and Keat’s poem harks back to this tradition.
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.