"Popcorn" is the nickname we gave to our incredibly active son. If you spent 2 minutes with him, you will easily understand the meaning of the nickname. The Chinese Noodle is the affectionate nickname we chose for our hoped for Daughter-to-Be, who may one day come to us in the LORD's perfect time from China.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

"To Autumn," by John Keats

Black Eyed Susans
from my front yard gardens
We love to read poetry at night before falling off to sleep.  As a family, our favorite poet is Robert Frost, but Mike also really enjoys the works of the English poet John Keats.  This poem- "To Autumn," describes the season we love so dearly,  a time of bounteous fecundity, a time of 'mellow fruitfulness'.

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,
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 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 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.

1 comment:

  1. Keats is such a master of words. I often wonder if our Keats (who is named for the poet) will be so gifted. Ahh, a mother's dreams.