- ….Tasch here…Wow! I can’t believe that it has already been a week! My, how time does fly! The past few days have been absolutely magical… Over the weekend, I visited the Botanical Gardens in inner city Hamburg. Boy, was it a sight to see!!! Don’t worry. I took some pics. It was breathtaking walking through the greenhouse within the garden and then along the periphery of the park. There was a bit of a chill outside, but not at all uncomfortable. The temperature just added to the energy of the moment and served as a gentle reminder that Autumn was in full swing. The leaves on the trees were a combination of radiant golden, brown and yellow colors which stood in stark contrast to the surrounding green foliage and the crystal lake sparkling in the distance.
- What does Fall mean to you? Historically, Autumn is known as a “time of harvest.”. From an agricultural standpoint, when a crop is ripe for harvest, farmers go out into the field and reap the “fruit” of their labor.
- Strictly speaking, to harvest is to reap and technically that which you reap is your harvest. Here is the definition of harvest according to dictionary.com:
- 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 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?
- 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 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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
- And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
- By John Keats
Keeping It Real,