A Pretty Poem I Forgot About

I took that picture last winter. You can click it to see the words better.



So why am I posting such a famous poem that you can already look at in forty different websites? I guess I want to remember what my class and I learned in English 12. John Keats gives too much glory to the creation rather than its Creator, but this is still such a thoughtful little poem. I like John Keats because he was a quiet, sickly person who still took pleasure in what little of the outside world he saw. I wonder what remote jungles are like in their autumn season? One always imagines them as green and in the sweltering heat of the summer.



I could take you through my scattered thought processes much longer, like Anne of Green Gables, but I'll leave you with something solid. Check out how David praises God for nature in Psalm 104. He begins and ends with the right application to seeing how big and beautiful the earth is: honestly praising the God who made it all.

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-eaves run;

To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees; hooray for beautiful Washington!

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-brimmed their clammy cell.

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-reaped furrow sound asleep,

Drowsed 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 cider-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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.