![]() However "blackened and obscure" memories of swilling away the hours of remaining daylight in a beer garden might be, the true measure of successful binge-drinking is an ability to look back without regret, and "think this a happy day," regardless of the melancholy state you wake up in. Every year, millions of people gather on on unrelated hillsides in Munich - not to mention bars across the world - to celebrate Oktoberfest and all things German by guzzling beer and saurkraut. There's a hillside in France dedicated to Thomas, who was mortally wounded while rising to light his pipe during the Battle of Arras in WWI. Harebell and snowdrop, at their season due,Īnd gorse that has no time not to be gay.īut if this be not happiness, - who knows? Were I some other or with earth could turn Than it is warm to the gaze and now I might The rich scene has grown fresh again and newĪs Spring and to the touch is not more cool To shake the fallen birch leaves from the fern Īt heavier steps than birds' the squirrels scold. That blackberry and gorse, in dew and sun,īow down to and the wind travels too light The short hill grass, the mushrooms small milk-white, ![]() Lets leaves into the grass slip, one by one,. The green elm with the one great bough of gold Infinitely calm, holding up all this falling. This hand here is falling.Īnd look at the other one. The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,Įach leaf falls as if it were motioning "no."Īway from all other stars in the loneliness. Forget about April showers and whatever happens in May, Millay was more of a dead flowers and rigor mortis kind of girl: "But ah, to see Beauty stiffened, staring up at the sky!" Based on this gorgeous and creepy ode, she would have traded springtime for autumn any day. Vincent Millay had an appreciation for the darker things in life. Oh, Autumn! Autumn!-What is the Spring to me? Then leans on me the weight of the year, and crushes Stripped of its secret, open, stark and bleak, Of half their tribe, and over the flattened rushes, Like agèd warriors westward, tragic, thinned When reeds are dead and a straw to thatch the marshes,Īnd feathered pampas-grass rides into the wind A time of culmination for plant life, preparation for the animals, and rumination for us humans, fall isn’t just pumpkin spice latte season and sweater weather - it’s the threshold between life and death.ġ. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.” Something of the grave, indeed. As Rilke put it, “At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. There’s also something ineffable about the fleeting transition from summer to winter, making this time of year strange, sacred, and irresistible to poets. Depending on your autumnal regimen, there are pagan rituals to partake in, fanstasy football leagues to play in, fruits and gourds to be picked, knits and flannels to be worn, and way too many seasonal beverages to sample.
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