#WingedWordsWindsday: 2023/09/27 -- Happy Fall, Y'all! :)

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled & Edited by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 2, No. 48: September 27, 2023

 

 

Happy Fall, Y’all! 😊

 

Editor’s Note

                The September equinox arrived last Saturday, September 23^rd, at 1:50 AM (CDT), bringing to the Northern Hemisphere the season of Autumn. Here are some classic poems to celebrate the changing of the seasons, as the Wheel of the Year continues to spin.

 

“Autumn”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarkand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red Harvest Moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven’s o’er-hanging eaves;

Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

 

A 1905 illustration for John Keats’ poem “To Autumn” by Maxfield Parrish (1870-1966). (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“To Autumn”

By John Keats (1795-1821)

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 mossed 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-brimmed 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-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.

 

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.

 

“Autumn”

By William Blake (1757-1827)

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained

With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit

Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayest rest,

And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,

And all the daughters of the year shall dance!

Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

“The narrow bud opens her beauties to

The Sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;

Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and

Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,

Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing,

And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head.

The spirits of the air live on the smells

Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round

The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.”

Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat;

Then rose, girded himself, and over the bleak

Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

 

“Corn Shocks and Pumpkins” by William Trost Richards (1833-1905). (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

“The Four Seasons of the Year: Autumn”

By Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

Of Autumn months September is the prime,

Now day and night are equal in each Clime,

The twelfth of this Sol riseth in the Line,

And doth in poising Libra this month shine.

The vintage now is ripe, the grapes are prest,

Whose lively liquor oft is cursed and blest:

For nought so good, but it may be abused,

But it’s a precious juice when well it’s used.

The raisins now in clusters dried be,

The Orange, Lemon dangle on the tree:

The Pomegranate, the Fig are ripe also,

And Apples now their yellow sides do show.

Of Almonds, Quinces, Wardens, and of Peach,

The season's now at hand of all and each.

Sure at this time, time first of all began,

And in this month was made apostate Man:

For then in Eden was not only seen,

Boughs full of leaves, or fruits unripe or green,

Or withered stocks, which were all dry and dead,

But trees with goodly fruits replenished;

Which shows nor Summer, Winter nor the Spring

Our Grand-Sire was of Paradice made King:

Nor could that temperate Clime such difference make,

If sited as the most Judicious take.

October is my next, we hear in this

The Northern winter-blasts begin to hiss.

In Scorpio resideth now the Sun,

And his declining heat is almost done.

The fruitless Trees all withered now do stand,

Whose sapless yellow leaves, by winds are fanned,

Which notes when youth and strength have past their prime

Decrepit age must also have its time.

The Sap doth slily creep towards the Earth

There rests, until the Sun give it a birth.

So doth old Age still tend unto his grave,

Where also he his wintertime must have;

But when the Sun of righteousness draws nigh,

His dead old stock, shall mount again on high.

November is my last, for Time doth haste,

We now of winters sharpness 'gins to taste.

This month the Sun's in Sagittarius,

So far remote, his glances warm not us.

Almost at shortest is the shortened day,

The Northern pole beholdeth not one ray.

Now Greenland (Groenland), Finland, Lapland, see

No Sun, to lighten their obscurity:

Poor wretches that in total darkness lye,

With minds more dark then is the darkened Sky.

Beef, Brawn, and Pork are now in great request,

And solid meats our stomachs can digest.

This time warm clothes, full diet, and good fires,

Our pinched flesh, and hungry maws requires:

Old, cold, dry Age and Earth Autumn resembles,

And Melancholy which most of all dissembles.

I must be short, and shorts, the shortened day,

What winter hath to tell, now let him say.