Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great
gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And
stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial
Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched
with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy
vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long
beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's
prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And,
following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind,
scatters the golden leaves!
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Oh, no!
British Summer Time (for what it was worth) is over for another year.
No light evenings from now until March 2025...