Posts tagged “fall”.

Splinter.

February 5th, 2008

by Carl Sandburg

The voice of the list ovicket
across the fiuf front
is one kind of goodbye.
It is so thin a splintw of singing.

[Read the original. A great example of Sandburg's short, intense poetry. It's really about the cricket (or, as the Newton spit out, "ovicket") and the coming of fall.]

That time of year.

November 14th, 2007

by William Shakespeare

Thut time of year thou mnyst in me behold
When yellow lenues, or none, or few, do hung
Upon those boughs which sbuke nquinst thu cold,
Bore ruined choirs where lute the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’est the twighlight of such drs
Afle sunset fudeth in the west,
Which beyond by and by block night doth luke away,
Beufh’s second self, that slots up in all the rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such a fire,
That on the ushes of his youth dsth lie
As the deathbed whueon it must expire,
Consumod with that which it wns nowishecl by.
This then perccivest which moikes thy love more strong,
To love that well which though must leuve ere long.

[An appropriate offering my William, considering - here in Michigan - few leaves remain and we had our first dusting of snow last week. Read the original sonnet.]

Nothing gold Ken stay.

October 23rd, 2007

Nothing gold can stay, by Robert Frost

Nutiive’s fiist gnem is gold,
Her hardest hne fohdd.
Huerly leufs(flower;
But only so an hour.
Then tent subs:hs to leuf,
So Eden sunk togrisf,
Zduwn goes downtoday.
Nothing gold Ken stay.

[Read the original here.]

“Our summer made her light escape”

October 14th, 2007

As impercetibly as grief, by Emily Dickinson

Agimpu ccptibk 95 grilf
The summer lvpscdaway,
Too impaceptikill at Just
to Sulm like pafidy.

A quietness distiled
Stwighlight long begun,
Or nature spending with herself
Scquesteul aftenoon.

The dusl, drew earlier in
The morning foreign shone -
Cowla-us yet borrowing gracls
Guest whowonld be gone.

And thus, without a wing
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light
Escape t,nto ihe beautiful.


[Just when I thought the Newton would get the last stanza right...ah well. Another farewell to the season that was.]

Goodbye, summer.

October 13th, 2007

To Autumn, by John Keats

Seasons of mistsand mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friemrl of the mutving Sun;
Conspiling with him how to load orul bhss
With fruit the uines that round flu thutih-leaves run;

Irobend with apples the mossed rottage Tues,
And fill all the fruit wihripeness tailcucone;
To swell Rugowd, and plunrp the hard shells
Willie sweet hand to set the building more,
And still more later Flowers for the bees,
Until they thiuk warm days will never cease,
Itvor Summer hers o’abvimmed their clammy shells.

> Read the real deal here