by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old.
Birds are darting through the air,
Singing, building without rest;
Life is stirring everywhere,
Save within my lonely breast.
There is silence: the dead leaves
Fall and rustle and are still;
Beats no flail upon the sheaves,
Comes no murmur from the mill.
**This is probably my favorite Autumnal photo. I have no idea where it came from. Somewhere in the world wide web about 10 years ago or so, I came upon it and all I could think of was the scrapbook my Mom has and how this looked like an old photo that might have been in it. The colors, I couldn't paint a picture and make it look so real. I have seen meadows like this, that look so sepia toned with just a punch of Fall color. Nobody would believe a painting like this. So...enjoy the colors of Fall, the oranges, ochres, russets and deep greens. The painting we call 'AUTUMN' only last a short while...and then comes the black, gray and white of winter on it's heels.