"Seasons of Mist and Mellow Fruitfulness...."

What a gorgeous day here in Southern Indiana!

It has been sunny all day with a nice, warm breeze blowing.  There is a chance for showers tomorrow afternoon and then cooler weather will set in for the remainder of the week, so I'm going to try to enjoy as much of this day as I can.

Yesterday was much like today.  The kids and I took a drive through some parts of Harrison County and enjoyed the Fall colors -- such as they are!  At least we did get a little bit of color change this year -- finally!  More than I expected at least.

I've been washing some bedclothes this afternoon and getting them out on the clothesline.  It's been a bit of a lazy Sunday afternoon but I have accomplished a few things.  I just posted a few items on Freecycle, and hopefully I'll get rid of a lot of things that way this week.

Well, I just wanted to pop in and say hello and wish everyone a great Sunday.  I leave you with the entire poem "To Autumn" by 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-eaves 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,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd 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 barrèd 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.

Thanks to Donna for the graphic.

Tags: Autumn, John Keats