Enfim, Outono...

Apesar do Outono do calendário ter começado há quase um mês atrás, depois de muitos dias chuvosos e estranhos, finalmente sinto a estação se fazer presente...

Dias claros, céu azul, sol brilhante e o friozinho no fim do dia. Estamos em equilíbrio com todas estas sensações e ainda assim, nos preparamos para o dormente inverno que chegará. Muitos pensamentos das alegrias e lições passadas ficaram, e agora merecemos o descanso nas noites longas que nos aguardam na próxima estação. Enquanto ela ainda não chega, comemoremos:

TO AUTUMN por John Keats em 19 de Setembro de 1819                                             1.     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.                                             2.       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,         Drows’d 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 cyder-press, with patient look,             Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.                                             3.       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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;            And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.