/lit/ - Literature

Lo! I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold;
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out
The year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of men,
Captain in cosmic wars,
Our Titan, even the weeds would show
Defiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the street
Seems any human nod,
Where shift in strange democracy
The million masks of God.

In youth I sought the golden flower
Hidden in wood or wold,
But I am come to autumn,
When all the leaves are gold.

Obligatory "To Autumn" plug.

The Return of the Native has that great opening scene with the bonfires on the heath and the villagers sitting around drinking cider and telling ghost stories. Very comfy.
The remaining three quarters of the novel take place in winter, spring and summer though.
Winter is pretty comfy too with the Mummer’s play and Christmas dinner party
Spring is marriage and summer is when all the corpses start dropping

>>13728703
this

Autumn is for redditors who think Spring and Summer are too mainstream but consider based Winter too "depressing".

>>13729252
>one of the four seasons is for the rival website

>>13729252

Winter and autumn are the best; fucking GTFO with your faggy gatekeeping. Spring is always muddy, and summer brings out normies and humidity.

>>13729252
ironic or not, this is the stupidest fucking post

I always read novels set in schools and universities in the fall. My well-worn copies of JR, The Secret History, Stoner, White Noise are already lined up for when the heat dies down.

>>13729508
based

I wish we had 9 months of autumn and 3 of spring. Fucking loathe this sticky, wet, hot mess that is summer

>>13729260
hilarious

>>13728696
read the Japanese 100 Poems (Ogura Hyakunin Isshu) there's plenty for all seasons, but the autumnal ones are in my opinion some of the most striking

>>13730140
No one wants to read your shitty Jap poetry

>>13730162
it's the peak pseud filter, QED.

>>13728696
It's actually Winter, but read Faust.

>>13728696
I have come to wound the autumnal city.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EnoHCSU5yn8

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.


A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill's shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.
Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.


It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child's
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels
And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.


And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning.

>>13728696