I do hope you haven't given up on me. I am hoping that fall will provide me with ample inspiration and the font of words will once again begin to flow. For now I am mostly inspired by my inability to sit still. I am experiencing "fall fever," the autumnal equivalent of the spring affliction of similar nomenclature. Every 30 seconds I turn and look out of my patio here at work (read: the windowed storage closet behind my desk) and bounce a bit in anticipation of being outside. I am having visions of myself, and others, walking down leaf-strewn sidewalks in sweaters and boots, perhaps carrying books and listening to Chris Thile on ipods.
College football starts this weekend, and though I am certainly not the most avid football fan, it does fill my little Auburn heart with cheer to think of College Gameday - even attending the UTC Mocs game last night (record setting attendance of more than 14,000 people in Finley Stadium...yeah, big time) made me happy.
Oh how I pine for a hint of cool in the evenings that I might wear my new cape (yep, it's a cape. And it's navy, with gold buttons. And it has a sash. Oh fine, it is this, from Modcloth:
As I think this post is almost completely ridiculous by this point, I might as well close with some poetry:
To Autumn - William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.
'The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.'
Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
It's a five o'clock world. Happy Labor Day, all!
