Begin the hours of this day slow

October dawns and the days grow heartbreakingly beautiful.  Fall is my favorite season for reasons as varied as crisp weather, holidays, and Terps sports.

As the leaves turn crunchy and colorful, I think often of my last encounter with fall - during an Argentine April.  I can't help but feel a tinge of melancholy when I ponder the peace and simplicity of my time in Argentina, compared with my life now.  Not that my life is at all bad, but when held against a perfect two weeks whose most pressing worries were "Which delicious steak should I eat tonight" or "Should we nap in the plaza before or after getting gelato," it's not hard to seem dreary by comparison.

Which brings me to this poem, "October," by Robert Frost.  I am not much for analyzing poetry, so I don't actually have a clue what Frost's intent was in writing this.  But, like the onset of my favorite season, it makes me feel cheery, with just a hint of reflective sadness.  And helps me to put health issues, mortgage payments, and life's assorted other complications back into perspective.  Where they belong.

October, by Robert Frost

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.