The season of autumn, in my opinion, is a very reflective time. Memories float through the atmosphere alongside the scents of hot apple cider and musky leaves. The mornings are cool. The sun makes the trees blaze gold. It makes me feel quite contemplative.
Recently, I found myself searching for something that might encapsulate all my autumn thoughts. I ended up stumbling across the poem “To Autumn,” by John Keats, and I fell in love with it. Naturally, I thought it appropriate to help you, dear reader, fall in love with it too.
On the surface, “To Autumn” is just that—Keats’s ode to the season of autumn, an appreciation for the rich abundance of life found during this time. The beginning of Keats’s poem paints a picture of things ripening: he describes images of the “maturing sun,” of trees so full they “bend with apples,” their branches nearly breaking. Gourds that swell, plump hazel shells, things filled to the brim. There is an admiration for the beauty that lies in this subtle season. Autumn is not the blazing heat of summer; nor is it the cold frost of winter. It is not the freshness of spring, either. Instead, autumn seems to be the close of an era—the golden age of the year. It garners a deep appreciation by many. But what exactly causes this appreciation? Why are people so entranced by its understated beauty?
Hovering over this poem is a sense of impending decay—and Keats seems to imply that this death is what causes people to appreciate the autumn season as they do. The fruits are so ripe and full that they are about to rot; the leaves are so vibrant, their yellows and reds shining through—yet they will soon all fall to the ground in a dull brown. Autumn’s abundance is only possible because it will end. The growing season eventually comes to a close.
In his second stanza, Keats writes about the necessity of harvest as autumn comes to an end. He describes half-reaped furrows and harvesters’ hooks. And maybe there is something that can be said to that. If autumn is allowed to continue on, things will become rotten, spoiled. But if we harvest the fruits before they go bad, we can still reap the rewards of them. We can enjoy the things we have presently because they will eventually fade away.
Really, I think Keats is advising us that to live well is to live in the moment. Yes, seasons of life will begin and end, but the important thing is to appreciate where we are right now. Keats advises us not to think of the “songs of spring,” when autumn “hast thy music too.” Each season has their specialty, and we appreciate one because of the other. Because of winter, I’m able to enjoy the warmth of the summer. And because of summer, I’m able to relish the coolness of fall. Only after the end of one season can we look back and fully appreciate its meaning in another.
You see, death is just as much a part of loveliness as life—it’s a peaceful sort of rest, a feeling of finality. And maybe I’ve read Anne of Green Gables one too many times (“My life is a perfect graveyard of buried hopes” —Who says that? I love both Anne and that quote passionately), but I’ve always seen a tragic beauty in death. Not because things are dying, but because of what death represents: the close of a life so full of love and wonder that eventually, it bursts to the brim. Maybe that’s too romantic a way of looking at it—but then again, I’ve always been a little bit of a romantic.
“To Autumn” brings us an insightful reflection to the underlying fleetingness of life. Because of that fleetingness, we must remember to appreciate where and who we are in the present. We never quite know when this present might end. We are all alive now, all ripe and full of energy. And when the day begins to die—when one season comes to a close—we can appreciate how far we’ve come.
The Student Movement is the official student newspaper of Andrews University. Opinions expressed in the Student Movement are those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the editors, Andrews University or the Seventh-day Adventist church.