Autumn, the year’s last, loveliest smile.
~William Cullen Bryant
Tales of a British expat, transplanted into the lush Tennessee countryside. Lover of old, time-worn, and antique. Tea-drinker, flower-grower, animal-nurturer.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
To Autumn : John Keats 1795-1821