Fall, leaves, fall
By Emily Brontë
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.
At last, someone else who loves Autumn and Winter. Hurray for Emily!
The Brontes must have been on my mind as I had just posted a blog about my long ago series of Wuthering Frights frivolities, about three Yorkshire-Polish (and Irish, as the Brontes were too) sisters trying (and failing) to write their best sellers.
We fail, but to our amazement our brother Branston succeeds and has a Hollywood blockbuster. Only I never got to write it as far as that.
And I must note that one of us, Nute, has gone on to have a lot of success with her books - and both Penny and I are published in a smaller way. Our brother, NotBranston, has some academic publications to his name too, as have Nute and Pen.
I picked up an interesting format from this poem and have decided to keep it.
And how lovely all the seasons are. But I do love weather, and wild weather, and the silence of a snow-fallen morning, and even the bleakness of November, with its stalks, its skeletal pods, and mists. And if I was up to a poem at the moment I am sure there is one to be written - not as good as Emily's of course.
Maybe, when God wakes Emily from the dreamless sleep of death, it will be to a wild and wuthering day in the restored earthly Paradise. Who knows? But, as always, I hope we are all there to find out.
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