O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not. but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest'
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
- William Blake, To Autumn, 1783
With the blood of the grape, pass not. but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest'
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
- William Blake, To Autumn, 1783
A toast to my favorite season... the colors, the smells, the changes in the air, the low golden light of the sun. Simultaneously yearning for a few more weeks of summer while anticipating the coming of winter. Harvesting nature's bounty and preparing for the long months of short days ahead of us. O Autumn, indeed.
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