..and a few pictures from my garden….
Isn’t it just the most exhilarating thing to be alive in this golden autumn, while flower borders are still rich and full of bloom as they can be, and be able to bridge the thought of a flowerless winter by planning and scheming and dreaming of the spring bulbs and the tulips that are to come? ~Antoinette Perrett, House Beautiful 1922
Gardening is a long road, with many detours and way stations, and here we all are at one point or another. It’s not a question of superior or inferior taste, merely a question of which detour we are on at the moment. Getting there (as they say) is not important; the wandering about in the wilderness or in the olive groves or in the bayous is the whole point.-Henry Mitchell
“At the end of the swamp, a narrow road turns right to the house. The giant sugar maples that surround it are spreading a deep green canopy above the slant roof and I look up at them and tell them that the first swamp maple is turning. Whether they believe me or not, I do not know. They are inscrutable. They are also very independent. sometimes the biggest one at the corner of the yard will be summer green while the one back where the barn burned is flaming with glory. Why?
Weather conditions are the same for all of them, one is no more sheltered than another, and they are the same age, judging by their size. I like to think one tree decides to keep summer a bit longer and one impetuously responds to the tide of incoming autumn. Trees are not remotely like people, but I reflect that I know some people who have never let summer go and others who begin to think winter thoughts in July. Perhaps it is all temperament.”
-Gladys Tabor
“I go to nature to be soothed and healed,
and to have my senses put in order.”
~ John Burroughs
When autumn wind goes running
It does some magic things.
It gives the shadows dancing shoes
It gives the bright leaves wings
When autumn wind goes running
It curls the bonfire’s tail of smoke
And shares a little whispered joke
With cornstalks who delight to prattle
It turns a seed pod into a rattle
When autumn wind goes running
~~~~~~~~ Autumn- a Season of Traditions ~~~~~~~
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;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
