Don’t, don’t judge me!
I’m always kneeling inside me.
But I’m not kneeling down, don’t you believe that:
up, up, I’m kneeling up.
Wrinkled tears drawn
by the ancient apple-seed:
This is what autumn brought. Cool fruit
on a glass bowl. Heavy, dark-emerald
grapes, jasper-bright pears,
its countless, exuberant, glorious jewels.
Waterdrop runs on a berry,
and rolls away, like the diamond.
It is the grandeur, unpitying, serene,
It would be better to live. But the trees across
are waveing to me with their golden hands.
I had to learn this by heart in school, and I loved every minute of memorizing it! — Nostalgia! 😛
Ode to Autumn by John Keats
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,
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.
I am totally doing this!!!
- What does a griffin actually look like? Noone has ever seen one in my circle… 😛
- How does it feel to be scratched by a giant dragon and then end up in the ER?
- What if you woke up one day not being sure whether you were sane or loosing it?
- How did the silly donkey end up with the Wanderer? Why is there a silly donkey anyway?
- If you don’t have a heart, and you’re still alive, how does your blood flow in your bloodvessels? Magic might be a tad bit simplistic, right?
So, inbetween stacks of books, I am so determined to be ready for this madhouse by the end of October! But I had to post this, because I know myself – I have to be accountable!
Stargazing scarecrows in a spiderweb’s hug are dancing in the rainy mud.
The moon rises and sets over the wheezy woods and windy hills with fuzzy haystacks.
Chilly frost bites the fallen leaves while the puffy pumpkins dream of a golden chariot’s track.
In the misty distance the fire put it’s tongue out in the window of a wavering shack.
Crowgazing scarestars in a spiderrain’s dance are hugging in the muddy web.
The wood rises and sets over the windy moon and wheezy haystacks with hillish fuzz.
Frosty chill bites the leafy fall while the dreamy chariot’s pumpkins track the golden puff.
In the distant mist the window put it’s tongue out in the shack of a fiery waver.