Posts Tagged ‘Seasons’

Out of a Frederick Window

December 4, 2012

TP Fall Snow SA 1

Image from FrederickNewsPost.com

Out Of A Frederick Window.

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of a far off hill
Out of a Frederick window — a vale and a rippling rill;
Out of a Frederick window — a mountain with crown of snow,
And a long, white road through the valley that sweeps like a bowl below;
Out of a Frederick window — the fields of the winter wheat,
And over it all Catcoctin, with the town at its green-girt feet!

Out of a Frederick window — a window that looks to the west,
The beautiful blue hills dreaming the dream of the wintry rest;
Snow-crowned gleaming and splendid, somber when dusk drifts down
And the bells of the twilight echo from the spires of the beautiful town;
Out of a Frederick window — the old pike winding far,
The vales and the bending river, the peaks and the evening star!

Out of a Frederick window — a glimpse of the naked trees,
Braddock upon the summit, and the echo of melodies
When the bees in the summer orchards and the hillside birds set fire
To the heart of the listening dreamers as they sang in a sweetheart choir;
Out of a Frederick window — the meadows of furzo and bloom,
And love in a faded garden with her foot on a silver loom!

Out of a Frederick window — a car climbs over the hill,
The steel wires sing in the valley and cows come down to the rill;
The phantoms of old, sweet faces, the shadows of old friends, glide,
And a great dream breaks into morning with a young heart by my side;
Out of a Frederick window — the valleys, and there they lie,
The peaks of the loved Catoctin in the blue of a wintry sky!

— The Bentztown Bard in The Baltimore Sun.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Dec 15, 1915

Autumn Leaves

November 16, 2012

Image from Tumblr

THEY MAKE US SAD, THEN MAKE US GLAD

— J.T. Reese —

How old Nature sighs and grieves,
‘Cause she’s losing all her leaves!
All her gowns of red and brown
Say “Good-bye,” then flutter down.

Soon the trees look bare and cold,
In the park or in the wold;
Pretty leaves of brown and red
Silently just bow their head.

Pretty leaves just feign to die,
And the trees just weep and sigh,
For the leaves sleep in the brake
Like they nevermore would wake.

But when days are nice and warm,
No more you feel the winter’s storm,
The trees put on their stylish dress
And you admire their loveliness.

A leaf looked down at me and said,
“You supposed we leaves were dead!
Though we wither up and dry,
Yet we never truly die.”

Cambridge City Tribune (Cambridge City, Indiana) Nov 10, 1927

After Many Days

November 10, 2012

Image from VisualizeUs

AFTER MANY DAYS.

The hills were burned with autumn’s tan,
Between them slow the river ran.
The woods were purpled haze;
Now black the line of hills, and sere,
And locked the stream — but you are here,
Now, after many days.

The fields where once the furrows lay
Have learned the touch of yesterday
Along their crumbling ways;
And you shall find them white with snow,
Brown though they were in long ago —
Now, after many days.

The thickets where the cat-bird called
The meadows by green hedges walled,
And stretch of briery maze,
Have passed and vanished, fled and gone,
Melted like starlight into dawn,
Now, after many days.

Full many a sign and sense of change
That seasons brings of new and strange
Will come to meet your gaze;
Bleak paths where once the violet sprang,
Dead branches where the robins sang,
Now, after many days.

But steadfast as the Northern star,
Whatever changes be or are,
Howe’er the season sways,
You know the love that rules my heart
Is yours, though long our hands apart,
Now, after many days.

— Ernest McGaffey in Woman’s Home Companion.

Lima News (Lima, Ohio) Oct 31, 1898

Image from dreamstime

October

October 1, 2012

Image from American Gallery – Miles Jefferson Early

Original.

OCTOBER.

BY CLARA DOTY.

Leaps October from the ashes dead
Of the radiant, glowing-souled September!
Now the sun burns in the heavens red,
Like an angry eye or a far ember.

To the sky the giant groves of oak
Arms of dull bronze, acorn-hung, are raising;
Poplars all are dimly white, like smoke;
All the sumach’s minarets are blazing.

Ripe nuts hang upon the bending trees,
Like the pendant heads on lily-anthers.
Squirrels, springing, shake them like a breeze —
Squirrels black or tawny, lithe as panthers.

Deer look into wild eyes as they drink —
Eyes all dark and soft and clear with wonder;
Wrinkled waters make the rushes shrink,
Break their shadowed lengths of green asunder.

Crickets clang their black metallic wings,
Drowning insect pipings shrill and slender;
Tardy bees, begirt with golden rings,
Hum around the garden’s faded splendor.

All the year’s sweet heats and rain have fled;
All its days are sad; and changed and sober
All its golden glow, its burning red,
As it wanes towards winter through October.

The Grand Traverse Herald (Traverse City, Michigan) Oct 8, 1868

Summer is Ended

September 23, 2012

Image from The Agribusiness Council – Educational Pioneers

THE SUMMER IS ENDED

Christina G. Rossetti (1830-1894)

Wreathe no more lilies in my hair,
For I am dying, Sister sweet;
Or, if you will for one last time
Indeed, why make me fair
Once for my winding-sheet.

Pluck no more roses for my breast,
For I like them fade in my prime;
Or, if you will, why pluck them still,
That they may share my rest
Once more for the last time.

Weep not for me when I am gone,
Dear tender one, but hope and smile;
Or, if you cannot choose but weep,
A little while weep on,
Only a little while.

Mason City Globe Gazette (Mason City, Iowa) Jul 30, 1929

Midsummer Folly

July 27, 2012

Midsummer Folly

Dressed to kill
Applies to those
Who in midsummer
Wear winter clothes.

— Helen Van Dusen

–O–O–

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Jan 16, 1948

Expecting Snow?

Nice for fall, but for now, uh-uh.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Jul 20, 1948

February, I Thank Thee in Advance

February 1, 2012

FEBRUARY.

February — fortnights two —
Briefest of the months are you,
Of the winter’s children last.
what do you go by so fast?
Is it not a little strange
Once in four years you should change
That the sun should shine and give
You another day to live?
Maybe this is only done
Since you are the smallest one,
So I make the shortest rhyme,
For you, as befits your time;
You’re the baby of the year,
And to me you’re very dear,
Just because you bring the line,
“Will you be my Valentine?”

– Frank Dempster Sherman in Exchange.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 4, 1899

FEBRUARY.

Month of the valentine,
Month of the frosted pain;
Month of the groundhog and
Of snow on hill and plain;
Month of the lengthening days —
Thrice welcome and thrice dear —
Come sit before the blaze
And help us make good cheer.

Month of the chilling winds
That howl across the waste;
Oh, sharp and soulless month,
When Jack Frost must be faced —
Month of the frozen pipes,
Thrice welcome and thrice dear —
For the simple reason that
You’re the shortest of the year.

— Exchange.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 6, 1899

FEBRUARY.

Not many love thee, February,
By few thy praise is sung;
While thousand cherish Maytime merry,
And June’s on every tongue.

Half like thy brother stern before thee,
And half like March, so rude,
Soon sped withal, bards quite ignore thee,
Or chant with listless mood.

And yet, my February, dearly
I prize thy four brief weeks;
Thy many an early sign that clearly
Of days still distant speaks.

I love thee for each certain token
That gleams ‘mid melting snow;
Each sure hint of the summer spoken
In kindlier winds that blow.

I scent e’en now the roses’ savor,
I see yon green expanse;
And, as men own some future favor,
“I thank thee in advance.”

— Ladies’ World.

The Daily Northwestern (Oshkosh, Wisconsin) Feb 18, 1899

Autumn Mosaics

November 6, 2011

Image from the Graham Owen Gallery website

NOVEMBER.

The Autumn skies are blue above,
The Autumn hills are brown,
On every kingly forest tree
There shines a golden crown,
And flushing through the valley’s haze
The sunlit waters go,
And in the wood the wind is heard
Like plaintive songs of wo!

The ocean shores are bare and black,
White scud is in the skies,
Thro’ ev’ning twilight overhead
The rushing wild duck flies,
From out the chestnut wood you hear
The nutter’s laugh and call;
And sunbeams play in purple round
The hazy waterfall.

The flowers have vanished from the wood,
And by the running streams —
We think of them as schoolmates dead,
Or friends we knew in dreams,
The dry stalks crackle as we walk —
Keen fitful gusts are heard —
Oh! with what melancholy strange
The thoughtful heart is stirred.

Republican Compiler (Gettysburg, Pennsylvania) Nov 25, 1844


FALLING LEAVES.

They are falling, slowly falling,
Thick upon the forest side,
Severed from the noble branches,
Where they waved in beauteous pride.
They are falling in the valleys,
Where the early violets spring,
And the birds in sunny spring time
First their dulcest music sing.

They are falling, sadly falling,
Close beside our cottage door;
Pale and faded, like the loved ones,
They have gone forever more.
They are falling, and the sunbeams
Shine in beauty soft around;
Yet the faded leaves are falling,
Falling on the mossy ground.

They are falling on the streamlets,
Where the silvery waters flow,
And upon its placid bosom
Onward with the waters go.
They are falling in the churchyard,
Where our kindred sweetly sleep;
Where the idle winds of summer
Softly o’er the loved ones sweep.

They are falling, ever falling,
When the autumn breezes sigh,
When the stars in beauty glisten
Bright upon the midnight sky.
They are falling, when the tempest
Moans like ocean’s hollow roar,
When the tuneless winds and billows
Sadly sigh for evermore.

They are falling, they are falling,
While our saddened thoughts still go
To the sunny days of childhood,
In the dreamy long ago.
And their faded hues remind us
Of the blighted hopes and dreams
Faded like the falling leaves
Cast upon the icy streams.

Decatur Republican (Decatur, Illinois) Nov 26, 1868


AUTUMN MOSAICS.

STUBBLE FIELDS.

Along the hills the squares of gold
That check the fading green,
A sweeter tale to me have told
Than many a fairer scene.
The winding swathes by reapers made,
Like wrinkles ill-concealed
By time on aged beauty laid,
Adorn the stubble field.

AUTUMN RAIN.

Steady,. downright, noiseless rain,
Emblem of Almighty power,
Soft as the dews that bathe the plain,
Unlike the summer’s lurid shower,
And summer’s torrid rage,
Thou art like the rest of age.

Patient as a Father’s love,
Steady as the Christian’s trust,
Noiseless falling from above
On the unjust and the just,
Storing wealth in field and Spring,
Summer’s coming days shall bring.

FROST.

It smote the flowers in its wrath,
It smote the weed beside the path,
Blind in its rage it smote the corn,
As well as blossoms that adorn
The crimson wreaths of climbing vine,
That round the forest monarch twine,
The frost and death blind as fate,
And stop not to discriminate.

SOUND FROM THE FIELDS.

There’s a humming drone and undertone
Of cricket and locust and bee,
From the drowsy fields at noon,
Like a child who sings to itself alone,
Then nods and sleeps to the melody
Of its own unstudied tune.

Cambridge Jeffersonian (Cambridge, Ohio) Sep 10, 1885

Autumn Poetry

November 1, 2009

In November.

The ruddy sunset lies
Banked along the west,
In flocks with sweep and rise
The birds are going to rest.

The air clings and cools,
And the reeds look cold
Standing above the pools
Like rods of beaten gold.

The flaunting golden-rod
Has lost her wordly mood,
She’s given herself to God
And taken a nun’s hood.

The wild and wanton horde
That kept the summer revel
Have taken the serge and cord
And given the slip to the Devil.

The winter’s loose somewhere,
Gathering snow for a fight;
From the feel of the air
I think it will freeze tonight.

— DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Oct 24, 1891

 

AUTUMN.

No sound but the beechnuts falling
Through the green and the yellow leaves,
And the rainy west wind calling
The swallows from the eves,
No fading trees are shedding
Their golden splendor yet;
But a sunset gleam is spreading,
That seems like a regret.

And the crimson-breasted birdie
Sings his sweet funeral hymn
On the oak-tree grim and sturdy,
In the twilight gathering dim,
Death comes to pomp and glory;
They fade the sunny hours;
And races old in story
Pass like the summer flowers.

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Oct 19, 1872

 

Fall Time in Georgia.

Through summer, we’ve been toastin’,
But now we’re on the way
Where the sweet potato’s roastin’
An’ the cabin fiddles play.

The cane will soon be gindin’,
An’ the boys’ll have their fun;
The hunter’s horn is windin’
An’ the rabbit’s on the run!

The Atlanta Constitution (Atlanta, Georgia) Aug 12, 1895

Obviously, the fiddler in the picture is not from Georgia, but I thought it was a great picture anyway. While searching for it, I came across a picture of a fiddler from Georgia by the name of Robert Allen Sisson. You can read about him in The Old Time Fiddlers Hall of Fame. To the left of his biographical sketch is an audio link of him playing Rocky Road to Dublin.

 

THE DESERTED BARN.

AGAINST the gray November sky
Beside the weedy lane it stands,
To newer fields they all pass by
The farmers and their harvest hands.

There is no lack within the mow;
The racks and mangers fall to dust;
The roof is crumbling in, but thou,
My soul, inspect it and be just.

Once from the green and winding vale
The sheaves were born to deck its floor;
The blue-eyed milkmaid filled her pail,
Then gently closed the stable door.

Once on the frosty wintry air
The sound of flail afar was borne,
And from his natural pulpit there
The preacher cock called up the morn.

But all are gone; the harvest men
Work elsewhere now for higher pay;
The blue-eyed milkmaid married Ben,
The hand, and went to Ioway.

The flails are banished by machines,
Which thresh the grain with equine power,
The senile cock no longer weans
The folks from sleep at dawning hour.

They slumber late beyond the hill,
In that new house which spurns the old;
In gorgeous stalls the kine are still,
The horse is blanketed from the cold.

But I from ostentatious pride
And hollow pomp of riches turn,
To must that ancient barn beside;
Pause, pilgrim, and its lessons learn,

So live that thou shalt never  make
A millpond of the mountain farm,
Nor for a gaudy stable take
The timbers of the ruined barn!

The Portsmouth Times (Portsmouth, Ohio) Aug 10, 1872