Well I can't believe that I've been away for so long 
-lots of things going on which are not easy to deal with and I haven't been very well so no inclination to post as I seemed to have nothing very interesting to say but it's now October and I can't believe the year has gone almost and we are now close to Samhain or Halloween and it is one of my favourite seasons -I took our dog for a walk early evening (he's making a fantastic recovery)
and there was a beautiful light and you know, I could smell Autumn,
if you think that's daft, just go out one early eve and take a deep breath, 
there is a rich earthy sharp scent in the air. Anyway I thought aha! something to write a post on. Keats poem Season of Mists is a favourite poem but did you know he was only 25 when he died? Not only was his genius so short lived but during his life his work was constantly criticised, Shelley blamed his death on the scathing attacks and reviews keats received for his poem Endymion: this is the first stanza:
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
The poem that is world famous and was a wonderful gift to give the world is:
'To Autumn'
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-eaves 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.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Autumn inspires me artistically like no other season can -it is romantic, gentle, and has an air of melancholy as another year nears it's end and of course nature mirrors the seasons of man, the end of youth, but always with the absolute certainty that there will be new growth and life as the wheel turns...
My own poetic contribution to Autumn is the following poem, I wrote this two years ago while sitting in low Autumn sunshine watching the last of the big blowsy roses shed it's petals.....
To October's Rose
Silently I keep vigil, softly I witness your fall,
your flush gone with the chance to enthrall
These summer eyes no longer see
damask rose, or honey bee,
Just your tired head, it's petals shedding,
confetti to Octobers wedding,
as slowly they drift down to earth,
crisp edged, to your place of birth.
And one of my Autumn photos -must get the camera back out again!
EllieGant
Friends make the world go round 
Yes, you can definitely smell autumn - musty, wood smoke, damp earth. Lovely
And some of my favourite poems also.
Welcome back.