He was considered by T. Add to list. Autumn I love to see, when leaves depart, The clear anatomy arrive, Winter, the paragon of art, That kills all forms of life and feeling Save what is pure and will survive. Already now the clanging chains Of geese are harnessed to the moon: Stripped are the great sun-clouding planes: And the dark pines, their own revealing, Let in the needles of the noon. Strained by the gale the olives whiten Like hoary wrestlers bent with toil And, with the vines, their branches lighten To brim our vats where summer lingers In the red froth and sun-gold oil.
Soon on our hearth's reviving pyre Their rotted stems will crumble up: And like a ruby, panting fire, The grape will redden on your fingers Through the lit crystal of the cup.
I-Like-Rhymes - Just as one harnesses horses to a cart and not a cart to horses this implies that the geese are harnessed to the moon so they can drag it across the sky like a silver chariot. I-Like-Rhymes - Autumn is the third season of the year. We were met by Eddie, an exact contemporary of mine and Churchwarden. We must have been in the same class at school.
He introduced us to Sean, the English, very welcoming Administrator of the Island and his wife Marina. We then headed for the Rectory where three of our five bags were already deposited. We strolled down to the harbour with Eddie to find the other two. They were already in a ute and so we followed the vehicle up to the house, helped unload them and carried them in.
The Rectory is not quite as smart as the photos seen on line had suggested, but it promises to be a congenial home for us while on the island and it has been kindly cleaned for us. There was a loaf of homemade bread, several cakes, one large egg and three small ones and a bowl of crayfish mayonnaise, delicious I later discovered. We settled in only slightly before heading out, first to the supermarket which reminded us of some of those we encountered in Zimbabwe a couple of years ago, rather limited in variety, but with more than enough to provide us with some sort of reasonable tucker while here.
After a first visit to the small and only supermarket on the island, we made a preliminary reconnaissance of the village. First impressions were slightly disappointing. The new method of building the walls of the low cottages is to put up wooden shutters and fill them with reinforced concrete.
A Critical Appreciation of the poem “To Autumn” by John Keats Essay Sample
Such walls are rather less attractive than the traditional, axe-shaped blocks of soft, volcanic rock that formed the gables ends of houses in days gone by. However most of the new houses are brightly painted and so look pretty in a different way. The flax-thatched roofs have all given way to brightly painted corrugated iron, but the houses are low and nestle comfortably into New Zealand flax wind breaks. In my youth there were no trees at all, it being too windy for most varieties. There are now quite a few New Zealand pohutukawa trees around the village which, because they spread with great ease, threaten to displace endemic trees and shrubs on the mountain.
Zealous, purist botanists urge their eradication. Stone walls are more a feature of the village than sixty years ago. The common land around the village is now largely paddocked with them, and most gardens are walled as well. The volcano has made available an unlimited number of small, jagged black rocks that prove ideal for dry stone walling. Each house appears to be minded by a black and white collie-like dog, for the most part they appear silent and wary.
We had been warned by someone on the ship to be careful of them and so were. The pleasing call of cockerels brought back memories of Africa as well as the Tristan of old. A map of the village had been left for us in the rectory. It has every house numbered and all occupiers listed, in all. Very useful. We found the church and looked it over. It is much changed. The whole church has been widened and so there are no longer attractive pillars and it is less cosy and intimate than I remember.
We said mattins in it this morning at eight o clock.
As we did so, by the window looking out over flax to the sea, we felt very much at home, and blessed to be here. Neaum vocal chords setting moist South Atlantic molecules of air vibrating with the sweet cadences of Anglicanism once more. The psalms for the day, 96 and 97, were particularly appropriate: Let the heavens rejoice and let the earth be glad: let the sea roar and all that fills it The Lord is kin let the earth rejoice; let the multitude of the islands be glad. Clouds and darkness are round about him: righteousness and justice are the foundation of his throne.
Fire goes before him: and burns up his enemies on every side. His lightnings light the world: the earth sees it and quakes. The mountains melt like wax before his face The oak altar rails that I helped to sand as my father made them all those years ago are no longer there. Of necessity they were replaced with the widening of the church.
A portion of them remains as a handrail outside the church gate, weathering into decay they were fingered lovingly by me as I walked in. In our village wanderings we met Simon, a fellow passenger on the ship. We later discovered that Jim and Sue Kerr his parents, are two of only three expatriates who come to church with any regularity. They gave no hint of this as we talked and ate with them. To my delight there was crayfish galore in a variety of forms and very good indeed.
Jim had spent eight years as school principal years before, when Simon was a little boy. We were told that the little school has thirty five children and is made of up composite classes, with a teacher for each class and one spare. The teachers are competent and dedicated locals, though largely untrained.
Some of the classes have only two or three pupils, few if any over five. There used to be an arrangement to send a couple of bright children to Denstone College, an English private school which had once sent an expedition to Inaccessible Island and so developed a relationship with the island. For a variety of reasons the sending of pupils no longer occurs. Instead a few pupils were sent to the Prince Andrew School on St Helena, but because of transport difficulties now that the RMS St Helena no longer visits Tristan regularly, this arrangement too has fallen through.
Jim Kerr has managed recently to organize for a few bright kids to attend a little school in Cape Town.
The road is now paved, after a fashion, with a sort of smooth tar, forming a pleasant narrow little lane. The island is riven by deep gulches, the first of them on the way west being Hottentot Gulch, no longer the formidable obstacle that I remember it to have been. There is a little bus stop there, to pick up folk heading out to the Potato Patches. We walked as far as the Hill Piece, a green hill slowly and spectacularly being eroded into the sea, hence only a piece of a hill.
We decided not to climb it, but instead made our way up one of its little foot hills to get a lovely view of the potato patches, the sea and Inaccessible island. Very beautiful. The base mountain, past Hill Piece appears rather less scarred and rough looking and also greener, though the grass is rather less than vivid as it reaches up to the cliffs. There are sheep all the way up these slopes and there is a fence at the foot to keep them there.
It is difficult in photographs to catch the immensity and closeness of this great foot base mountain that hides the peak from view. It is omnipresent and dominating. I do love it. The great watercourses and gulches are spectacular, some of them in great steps, which after heavy rain must be spectacular waterfalls, though only briefly, for the journey from the island peak to the coast is short and sharp.
Remembering Roy Campbell:October 2, –April 22,
We sat on the hill overlooking the west of the plateau for a while, the turf being very soft with a fair proportion of moss enabling me to walk bare-footed. The cattle are obviously much better managed than in my day, appearing nowhere near as emaciated. On our return we called on Lars and had a cup of tea with him and Trina, welcoming and lovely people.
I looked at the registers earlier and saw that they had between forty and sixty on most Sundays.
He and his fellow Reader appear to do a good job and the service seems straightforward. How the wind whistles about our sheltered house. The view from the office where I sit typing this is lovely, straight out to a tempestuous sea. We suspect it is still on the ship which is now on its way to Gough island.
What an odd place this island is. Not poverty stricken or down at heel in any sense, yet also a little make-shift, make-do. Heath-Robinson has to be called upon frequently to do his best, given the time required and expense called for to bring in parts to repair things. So isolated too, in spite of wonderful communication facilities. The changes since my youth are huge and yet the sense of having been here and a part of it is very strong. The gully in front of the Rectory and over which I look as I write, although interfered with to its detriment by a new road and stone walls, is still the same shape and the steep little bit of garden behind the rectory which I remember as darker and danker, and where our pet penguin moulted, still resonates.
Heating and cooking in the houses here seems to be all cylinder gas. We headed out to get some marmalade to have with our toast and bought a few other things as well. We got some aged and seriously deteriorating little onions for nothing, and have have bought the only pulses we can find here, split peas, as well as some curry powder. The rain teemed down on the way back and our over-trousers are likely to be very useful if such wind driven rain persists.
Autumn is on its way
The mountain, so close to us out of the back windows, is obscured completely by cloud, nor is there any horizon as I look out of the front window, the sea merges into grey sky a few hundred yards distant. Friday 14 September, 2. It begins to look as though the sky is lifting and that we are in for some better weather. We went up to mattins this morning well togged up with beanies under our hoods, it being still cold, grey and wet. When I awoke during the night there was the sound of rain on the roof. We called on both Eddie and Carlene.
Carlene is a bright spark and her lovely and friendly husband appears to be the son of a near contemporary of mine, James, who became a minor celebrity as a boy when he fell over the cliff and was severely injured. It is wonderful to see that he is still alive sixty years later. I must go to see him. His son was just off to take a meal to him.
Related essay on the poem autumn by roy campbell
Copyright 2019 - All Right Reserved