Autumn leaves and leaves of books

A stroll in my neighborhood

Liquid Amber trees in our neighborhood park

The glories of autumn bring with them dark mornings and early sunsets. At winter I get up at night and dress by yellow candle-light…

Sort of.

I much prefer Robert Louis Stevenson’s lyrical description to my own. “I hurry along the sidewalk using a flashlight, hoping I don’t slide on wet leaves or trip on acorns. And why did I forget to wear gloves?”

With Stevenson in mind, I found this gem. Because autumn and winter are the season for books. And for bonfires, although city ordinances won’t allow them here.

Picture-Books in Winter
Robert Louis Stevenson

Summer fading, winter comes—
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.

Another autumn lovely, a plant that just keeps blooming: "Hot Lips"

Another autumn wonder, a plant that has bloomed continually since August: “Hot Lips” (seriously!)

Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.

All the pretty things put by,
Wait upon the children’s eye,
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.

We may see how all things are
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies’ looks,
In the picture story-books.

How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books?

Laura Hile (1)



One thought on “Autumn leaves and leaves of books

  1. Robin Helm

    A Bird, came down the Walk –
    He did not know I saw –
    He bit an Angle Worm in halves
    And ate the fellow, raw,

    And then, he drank a Dew
    From a convenient Grass –
    And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
    To let a Beetle pass –

    He glanced with rapid eyes,
    That hurried all abroad –
    They looked like frightened Beads, I thought,
    He stirred his Velvet Head. –

    Like one in danger, Cautious,
    I offered him a Crumb,
    And he unrolled his feathers,
    And rowed him softer Home –

    Than Oars divide the Ocean,
    Too silver for a seam,
    Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
    Leap, plashless as they swim.

    Emily Dickinson



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