Autumn Elegy
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away,
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play—
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.
-”Autumn” by Percy Bysshe Shelley
What marks autumn as my favorite season is how much I identify with its mood—sun-drenched and crisp at the outset, but as you go deeper, there comes a melancholy, a silvery grey. It is the seasonal hour of contemplation, reflection, and quietude. There is a beauty in sadness, in aloneness, a beauty to be found in a drizzle of tears. Absorb the beauty in the blue, the grey, the B flats, the C Sharps, the minor chords and requiem. Listen to the elegiacal chorus that draws us closer to our emotional selves.
As autumn leaves fall, I feel increasingly at home because I am one who is comfortable reclining in that inner chamber, lingering there a minute longer, growing from the inside-out, allowing feelings to creep and slumber, living in a room of my own.
