Hello crafty friends...fall comes late here in the south, and although
it's already December, I've been taking long walks with my boy, my best little buddy.
The air is crisp and mild, and the fiery coloured leaves are still falling gently.
'Boy'
I dug out the remnants of a fall kit from Scraps of Elegance, I really miss being on
the Design team of a kit club! Once a month I would find a jam packed box
full of seasonal goodies and my mind would swirl with ideas.
This fall kit was one of my favourites, it had beautiful papers from the Prima collection
Amber Moon, which I used here to create one more page with an autumn mood.
Here are a few close ups:
I've had this chipboard word floating around my desk for ages and ages,
I finally found a page to use it on!
1.
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.
2.
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.
3.
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.
- John Keats
See you soon,
Hugs,
Lisa xo
