Editorial babble
September already and Summer's Lease is nearly done.
A time for reading and there are some excellent poets to read in this
issue. Poets of experience and poets driven by the heat of youth. Step
right in and enjoy them. Each brings something unique from their life's
experience or imagination for us to enjoy. Reflective, descriptive, full
of keen observation. I have enjoyed each and every poem here and I hope
you will too.
But first, as Fall is my favorite season and has also been the inspiration
for wonderful poetry, why not spend a moment or two contemplating the
season with the incomparable John Keats.
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-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.
John Keats (1795-1821)
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