ode to autumn

cannon mountain in autumn

Ode to Autumn (third stanza)

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.

John Keats, 1819


franconia notch bike path

Autumn has always captivated my attention. The cooling air, the changing colors in the leaves of trees, the maturation of spring blooms and births, and the still evenings make autumn a season I cherish. I first encountered Ode to Autumn as a high school senior, and to me, no one has ever captured the beauty and splendor of autumn as Keats does in this homage. He urges us to open our eyes and ears to the sights and sounds of this season; he warns us against thinking of the songs of spring, for autumn has its own music, too.

Reading this final stanza, I can hear the wailing and mourning of the small gnats, the bleating of the full-grown lambs, the singing of the crickets, the whistling of birds, and the fluttering of wings as our avian friends gather to journey south. I picture myself lying on a grassy hillside, soaking in the retreating rays of sun of another “soft-dying day.” Red, orange, and yellow leaves fall slowly from the trees, drifting back and forth before creating a colorful quilt as they reach the earth. In the valley below, harvested farms lie, as “stubble-plains,” waiting for another planting season. Yes, autumn is a time of death, but must one necessarily see it that way? I prefer to see in autumn a spell of preparation for another birth, renewal of life and spirits that will arrive in time.



Keats’s carefully chosen words invite us on a journey to see the beauty in a time when many shun the cooling temperatures, shortening days, and shedding trees. What is it in me that finds such comfort and life in this poem? My connection to this earth and desire for its well-being certainly allow me to see nature and its beauty in all its magnificent forms. I marvel at how the earth continues to live its life, keeping time independent of all its inhabitants, and it is out of awe for this process that I seek ways to cultivate a relationship with this ultimate of all places we call home. When I read this poem, I experience myself standing alongside Keats as he breathes in the crisp fall air and searches for words – none truly suffice – to express his wonder.



This year, finding myself city-bound, Ode to Autumn takes on greater significance. I miss the endless palette of autumn colors painted across the Western Massachusetts landscape. Where are the songs of Autumn, I ask myself. Ay, where are they?