Autumn by Kumarendra Mallick SignUp
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Editor's Choice
Theme: Clouds Share This Page
Autumn
by Dr. Kumarendra Mallick
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wandering clouds --
adrift on the wings
of dreams
Share This:
October 03, 2016
More By: Dr. Kumarendra Mallick
Views: 542      Comments: 4

Comments on this Poem

Comment
Welcome, My Dear

Beautiful words need beautiful pix

Glad you liked my choice.

Happy Navratri :-)

alwaysaparna
10/08/2016 13:42 PM

Comment Bijay babu, Dussera greetings to you and family. It is a pleasure to have your appreciation and the bonus is a great poem, that too by Keats! Thank you.

kumarendramallick
10/03/2016 23:31 PM

Comment What a beautiful valley you have illustrated, Aparna. Thank you very much.

kumarendramallick
10/03/2016 23:28 PM

Comment Wandering clouds, adrift, on the wings of dreams, Vikram aur Vaital, one after another., cannot be thought without. It looks rosy and Divine.

Ode to Autumn by John Keats


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-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 5
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; 10
For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells.

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; 15
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 20
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day 25
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; 30
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

bijay kant dubey
10/03/2016 22:52 PM




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