Let the seasons inspire you.

In a letter written to Reynolds from Winchester, in September, 1819, Keats says: ‘How beautiful the season is now–How fine the air. A temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather–Dian skies–I never liked stubble-fields so much as now–Aye better than the chilly green of the spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm–in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my Sunday’s walk that I composed upon it.’ What he composed was the Ode To Autumn


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’erbrimmed their clammy cells.

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.


Autumn inspired Keats.

Perhaps it can inspire you too. What do you like about the season?

Fallen leaves: the crunch of them under your feet? The clouds, the smells, the sunsets or the chill in the air? Whatever it is, why don’t you write a poem, a story or a piece of prose and share it here?

11 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. ankushmehta
    Oct 05, 2013 @ 23:06:10

    Reblogged this on Icanbeatit.



  2. cmoneyspinner
    Oct 06, 2013 @ 18:24:11

    I always find the last 3 months of the year very inspiring. I totally get Mr. Keats.



  3. Belinda Y. Hughes
    Oct 06, 2013 @ 18:58:27

    Like Keats, I am struck by the beauty of fall, and I do need to write some fresh poetry. Thanks for the idea.



  4. Teagan Kearney
    Oct 06, 2013 @ 19:24:53

    Thanks, Christine, for sharing. I remember this poem, beautiful…Keats…what more is there to say? So…very nervously I’m offering this haiku in the spirit of Autumn!
    trees mutate, undress –
    frost laces the red brown shawl
    layering the earth



  5. Katie Cross
    Oct 07, 2013 @ 00:40:20

    Autumn is my favorite time of the year. Summer is lingering here, and it’s made me SO sad. I love the pumpkins, the leaves, the cool air and crisp mornings. Oh, just thinking of it makes me mad that it still feels like summer!



    • cicampbell2013
      Oct 07, 2013 @ 01:17:44

      Goodness, Katie. Our summer is short enough over here and the winter long, so we love that it’s been a bit warmer than usual. Autumn is still happening, but more gently than the past few years.



  6. Yolanda Isabel Regueira Marin
    Oct 08, 2013 @ 09:12:48

    Thanks for sharing … lovely poem.



  7. Trackback: a green song. | ripples in the midnight sky...
  8. Harold Clapsaddle
    Feb 01, 2014 @ 17:13:51

    You seem like a person that might be able to help me.
    Please contact me privately.



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