Shakespeare wrote: "That time of year thou mayst in me behold / When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang / Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, / Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang." Or, for you text messagers, "ateotd i m ateotd."
But I'm not talking about my age. I'm talking about autumn in general, and Shakespeare's disparagement of this fine season. This poem, Sonnet 73, goes on and on about what an old, decrepit wreck the speaker is, and how the listener must really be in love, to love someone so close to death. Geez, what a drama queen!
I was out biking today where yellow leaves, or none, or few were still hanging on the boughs. It was freakin' beautiful. I love autumn. Days can be cool and clear. Nights are downright cold, which is great for piling on the blankets.
Now granted, I don't know what autumn is like in Stratford, or what it was like in Shakespeare's day, before climate change made everything go haywire. But I can't believe autumn in Old England was any worse than winter in New England, and even that doesn't fill me with the moroseness and self-pity that seems to have inspired the Bard. The man was positively gloomy about autumn.
Oh, wait. They didn't have football.