Today felt much more like Boston autumn/winter, and my walk through the beautiful area of Beacon Hill was littered with showers and plenty of interesting sites.
|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-eves 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?
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Autumn’s reserved demeanor made her the most difficult to find. She knew the world better than nearly anyone else, and knew all the best places to find peace and quiet. While occasionally tiptoeing on the outskirts of Summer’s parties, she much preferred the company of a few people at a time. Those fortunate enough to spend a great deal of time with Autumn enjoyed the sensational views from the tops of mountains and the sweeping lowlands. Her favourite place to take her friends was the summits of the West from which you could see the heights bursting with the colours of fiery sunsets. Autumn loved to hear the leaves rustle and the branches creak and the fir-boughs chime, and would send gusts into the forests to conduct their melodies. Her one regret was not having made friendly with Winter, so she always made sure to leave gifts for Winter to find when she travelled from her Northern home.
Summer’s voluptuous pulchritude endeared her to the world. Her days were spent on the rolling green banks of lazy rivers beneath the weeping willows. All were welcome to share her company, and there was wine and nosh aplenty, the goblets and dishes replenishing themselves at a wave of Summer’s hand. The Sun visited Summer’s gatherings regularly, and would occasionally stay so long that the day would seem to never end. Summer was a favourite among the young and in love, and had unfailingly good advice to share with those around her. Rarely did Summer devolve into a hostile mood, but when she did, the world knew to take cover. Her aggressive temper would get the best of her, sending oceans into a frenzy, with thunder shaking the ground and gales dashing about the open spaces. Her glare would wither the strongest of women, and send men scurrying to their hiding places. When at last her calm would return, and the sun emerged from its camouflage, the world was pleasurable again.
Of the seasons, Spring was the most beloved. She had chosen to present herself as a child, full of mirth and glee, always dancing from one day into the next. Little children flocked to her in droves, their bodies forming a quivering mass at the cusp of the woods. Deft hands wove diadems of blossoms and vines around the soft tresses of the children. Trails of petals drifted behind them on the soft breeze. Spring’s voice sang long into the nights, enchanting the minds of those that heard her, her words imploring them to breathe deeply the soul of the new earth. The nymphs would often join her ballads and dance among the people she had gathered around her. Wherever her feet landed, the earth became green and lush with life, the forest and the hills and the plains replete with the signs of growth and merriment. And in the morning, Spring would flit away and the world would awaken to the echo of her tune.
Once, a very long time ago, when humanity could speak with earth and understand the strange language of the trees, the world was free and glorious. Even the seasons were not confined to the invisibility of the skies, but walked among mankind, conversing easily with any they came across. Of all the seasons, Winter was by far the loneliest. She often tread barefoot along the forest paths, a thin cape draped and clinging to her skin. Where she walked, snow flurries drifted from her, rolling off her shoulders, and ice spread in cracked glass spider-webs over the dirt. A crown of snowbells woven by the hands of a child circled her forehead, a considerable contrast to her skin and hair. Few people ever walked with the Winter, leaving her to discover the world on her own. loneliness was a companion, but she grew accustomed to the shadow, and learned to enjoy its presence. The quiet opened her ears to the whispers in the trees and the rumblings of the earth. Some days were spent sitting to watch the sun walk across the sky, kissing the treetops in the morning and the evening. She avoided towns and searched out the wide open spaces of the North, contenting herself to watch humanity from afar, save for the few moons each year when the others gave up their domains to her icy touch. And so in the North she resides, observing the planet and watching it grow, in a glacial convent of population one.