By Thomas Hood
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer?—With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds?—Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday,
And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
Where are the blooms of Summer?—In the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
Where is the pride of Summer,—the green prime,—
The many, many leaves all twinkling?—Three
On the moss'd elm; three on the naked lime
Trembling,—and one upon the old oak-tree!
Where is the Dryad's immortality?—
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored
The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;
The swallows all have wing'd across the main;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drownèd past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair:
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care;—
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower,—and enough of gloom;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose doom
Is Beauty's,—she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light:
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,—
Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!
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I had a nice Thursday when I wasn't doing work. As planned, I went to Tiara Galleries on Rockville Pike for the Vera Bradley winter launch, where there were bagels and muffins for visitors and lots of lovely new things including penguin holiday cards in Plum Petals. I was being very good and not spending any money, but then I decided to stop at Cottage Monet in downtown Rockville since there's free parking in the garages this week. Cottage Monet also had the new Vera Bradley items, plus they were giving away tins of mints with the new patterns on them...and the retired items were 75% off, meaning I now have a Julia bag in Folkloric and it cost $13. I call this an utterly successful shopping trip!
I did some work in the afternoon before Adam called to ask for a ride home from cross country practice; he usually walks, but he has a cold and had a lot of homework that he wanted to get finished before going after dinner to the school's activity fair, where all the clubs try to recruit new members. He did the drama, photo, and chess clubs last year, but I think this year he wants to join a film club. I took him and his friend Daniel over, then I went to the mall to wander for an hour while waiting for them to text and tell me they were finished. We watched the final episode of the animated Star Trek series, which I need to review tomorrow, then we watched part of the Cincinnati-NC State game in which the Bearcats were trouncing the Wolfpack before The Daily Show. Here are some more Hillwood photos, mostly private spaces:
Have a lovely equinox and a blessed Mabon.
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