Where late the sweet birds sang

There’s haughty glory in October days. The regal deep blue skies, the cool crisp breeze which commands and demands our attention, the grand gestures, the rich royal colors…nature’s crowning glory. It’s my favorite time of each year.

But melancholy, too, has its time in the turning year. Leaves go from green to gold to brown. Hibernation beckons.  Fire gives way to ice. Soon enough we’ll crave the heat. No sweet showers pierce down to the root. The deep freeze awaits us — and (we are reminded each autumn) we can run but cannot hide.

Shakespeare knew this:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

The passing of seasons, love lost and love found, birth and life and death, and one last leaf which clings to the limb but then at last ungrips, gone with the gust, gone with the wind.