Photo (and Poetry) Blog

I Cannot But Remember When the Year Grows Old


Autumn by Mihaela Limberea www.limberea.com



I cannot but remember

When the year grows old—
October—November—
How she disliked the cold!

She used to watch the swallows
Go down across the sky,
And turn from the window
With a sharp little sigh.

And often when the brown leaves
Were brittle on the ground,
And the wind in the chimney
Made a melancholy sound,

She had a look about her
That I wish I could forget—
The look of a scared thing
Sitting in a net!

Oh, beautiful at nightfall
The soft spitting snow!
And beautiful the bare boughs
Rubbing to and fro!

But the roaring of the fire,
And the warmth of fur,
And the boiling of the kettle
Were beautiful to her!

I cannot but remember
When the year grows old—
October—November—
How she disliked the cold!


Edna St. Vincent Millay, When the Year Grows Old


I Cannot Endure to Waste Anything So Precious as Autumnal Sunshine


Autumn in the Woods II by Mihaela Limberea www.limberea.com



I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house.


Nathaniel Hawthorne


Autumn Colours by Mihaela Limberea



Is not this a true autumn day? Just the still melancholy that I love—that makes life and nature harmonise. The birds are consulting about their migrations, the trees are putting on the hectic or the pallid hues of decay, and begin to strew the ground, that one’s very footsteps may not disturb the repose of earth and air, while they give us a scent that is a perfect anodyne to the restless spirit.


George Eliot


Autumn in the Woods by Mihaela Limberea www.limberea.com



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 honey-sweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.


Rainer Maria Rilke


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