The Artist’s Evening Song
Oh, for some inner creative force
Through my mind, echoing!
That through my hands might course
A sap-filled blossoming.
I only shudder, I only stutter,
And yet can’t halt: at last,
I feel I know you, Nature,
And must hold you fast.
When I think how all these years
My powers have been growing,
And where barren heath appeared
Now streams of joy are flowing:
How I yearn for you, Nature, then,
And long for you, with faith and love!
For me you’ll be the leaping fountain,
A thousand springs will hurl above.
And every single power
In my mind you’ll heighten,
And this narrow being-here
To Eternity you’ll widen.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“Autumn. It’s crispness, it’s anticipation, it’s melancholia, it’s cool breezes replacing summer’s heat. It’s long days in the field, a harvest festival when work’s done, a cheering crowd in a football stadium, chrysanthemums punctuating a somber landscape. It’s Halloween high-jinx, pumpkins grinning toothy smiles, the crack of pecan pressed against pecan. It’s the first curls of woodsmoke, fresh blisters from pushing a rake. It’s crisp and fresh and mellow and snug, solemn and melancholy. And it’s very, very welcome.” Author: Good Housekeeping Magazine
“Why should I be unhappy? Every parcel of my being is in full bloom.” — Jalal al-Din Rumi