Hello friends. Lately I've been noticing that leaves are getting crisper, the blackberries vines are heavy with fruit and the landscape is beginning to change. It's been unusually hot here in my little corner of the Pacific Northwest. I think we may have an early autumn. Though I enjoy the summer, I must admit, these little signs of fall stir my senses. Ahhh, the glory of harvest moons, warm days and cool nights, pumpkins lying in the garden, homemade applesauce with cinnamon!Watching nature spin everything into gold is brings me such pleasure every year.
I saw this poem on the Writers Almanac on Facebook.I had not previously read anything by Howard Nemerov. His work is just beautiful...enjoy!
Summer's Elegy
Day after day, day after still day,
The summer has begun to pass away.
Starlings at twilight fly clustered and call,
And branches bend, and leaves begin to fall.
The meadow and the orchard grass are mown,
And the meadowlark's house is cut down.
The little lantern bugs have doused their fires,
The swallows sit in rows along the wires.
Berry and grape appear among the flowers
Tangled against the wall in secret bowers,
And cricket now begins to hum the hours
Remaining to the passion's slow procession
Down from the high place and the golden session
Wherein the sun was sacrificed for us.
A failing light, no longer numinous,
Now frames the long and solemn afternoons
Where butterflies regret their closed cocoons.
We reach the place unripe, and made to know
As with a sudden knowledge that we go
Away forever, all hope of return
Cut off, hearing the crackle of the burn-
ing blade behind us, and the terminal sound
Of apples dropping on the dry ground
The summer has begun to pass away.
Starlings at twilight fly clustered and call,
And branches bend, and leaves begin to fall.
The meadow and the orchard grass are mown,
And the meadowlark's house is cut down.
The little lantern bugs have doused their fires,
The swallows sit in rows along the wires.
Berry and grape appear among the flowers
Tangled against the wall in secret bowers,
And cricket now begins to hum the hours
Remaining to the passion's slow procession
Down from the high place and the golden session
Wherein the sun was sacrificed for us.
A failing light, no longer numinous,
Now frames the long and solemn afternoons
Where butterflies regret their closed cocoons.
We reach the place unripe, and made to know
As with a sudden knowledge that we go
Away forever, all hope of return
Cut off, hearing the crackle of the burn-
ing blade behind us, and the terminal sound
Of apples dropping on the dry ground
***
1 comment:
Summer is my least favourite season and I always welcome autumn (and the pared back elegance of winter). This poem and poet spoke to me. Thank you.
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