“such pleasant and sunny spots”

"There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October."

Nathaniel Hawthorne

About Fr. John Zuhlsdorf

Fr. Z is the guy who runs this blog. o{]:¬)
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  1. gloriainexcelsis says:

    MMM! First night for a warm, comforting quilt. First morning with a chill in the air. Bright blue sky over the Sierra foothills. October 1st.
    O suns and skies and clouds of June,
    And flowers of June together,
    Ye cannot rival for one hour
    October’s bright blue weather.
    Helen Hunt Jackson

  2. Denis Crnkovic says:

    October, that begins with the seasons of angels and ends with the season of the dead, has been made much of by the poets’ hand:

    Just before the death of flowers,
    And before they are buried in snow,
    There comes a festival season
    When nature is all aglow.

    – Anonymous

    In the great silence of my favorite month,
    October (the red of maples, the bronze of oaks,
    A clear-yellow leaf here and there on birches),
    I celebrated the standstill of time.

    The vast country of the dead had its beginning everywhere:
    At the turn of a tree-lined alley, across park lawns.
    But I did not have to enter, I was not called yet.

    Motorboats pulled up on the river bank, paths in pine needles.
    It was getting dark early, no lights on the other side.

    I was going to attend the ball of ghosts and witches.
    A delegation would appear there in masks and wigs,
    And dance, unrecognized, in the chorus of the living.

    – Czeslaw Milosz, All Hallow’s Eve

    – Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan

    Across the land a faint blue veil of mist
    Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober
    Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist
    The drooping cherry orchards of October
    Like mournful pennons hang their shriveling leaves
    Russet and orange: all things now decay;
    Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves,
    And sad the robins pipe at set of day.

    – Siegfried Sassons, October

    And many, many more…

  3. It’s all Longfellow here…

    The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
    It rains,and the wind is never weary;
    The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
    But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
    And the day is dark and dreary.

    My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
    It rains,and the wind is never weary;
    My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
    But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
    And the days are dark and dreary.

    Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
    Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
    Thy fate is the common fate of all,
    Into each life some rain must fall,
    Some days must be dark and dreary

  4. In this glad season, while his sweetest beams
    The sun sheds equal o’er the meekened day ;
    O, lose me in the green delightful walks
    Of Dodington, thy seat serene and plain ;
    Where simple Nature reigns ; and every view,
    Diffusive, spreads the pure Dorsetian downs,
    In boundless prospect. yonder shagged with wood,
    Here rich with harvest, and there white with flocks
    Meanwhile the grandeur of thy lofty dome,
    Far splendid, seizes on the ravished eye.

    – James Thompson, Autumn

  5. Supertradmom says:

    Keats:My favorite–

    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-eves 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.

  6. GOR says:

    And less poetically, stacking the firewood in the garage is a sure sign that the “pleasant and sunny spots” will be few and far between anon!

  7. Traductora says:

    I have spent many Octobers in many different places, and it’s almost inevitably a pretty month, regardless of latitude.

  8. Fr. John Mary says:

    Wish I could provide a poetic comment; I just want to thank God for the beautiful weather these past days: clear blue skies, beautiful autumn colors, cool, fresh air…just hope the rain and wind these next days in West Central Wisconsin won’t ruin the leaves just yet.

  9. Robert_H says:

    Fr. Z,

    Thanks so much for including your poetry and “good news wanted” posts. They are one of my most favorite things about WDTPRS. I often email the poems to my family.

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