by William Blake
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stainèd
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 on 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.
Photographs by Merisi
captured on a walk
along the Venetian Lagoon
North of Venice
22 September 2009
When I was not concentrating
on capturing the autumnal light
of wild mirabelles
in the thicket of woods along the shores,
I enjoyed the view over the Venetian Lagoon,
towards Torcello and Burano,
with Venice itself hiding beyond
in the mid-morning mist.
on a handful of these wild plums
and lived to tell you all:
They tasted like manna