“How beautiful the season is now—How fine the air. A temperate sharpness about it.”
The autumnal equinox
arrives today at 8:31 a.m. CST, but autumn in Texas is scarcely distinguishable
from spring, summer and even some winters. A few degrees cooler but no discernable
sharpness. For a transplanted Northerner, most disappointing are the leaves –
still green, still on the trees. Natives will hardly notice. People in Houston are
preoccupied with whether Beta – the ninth landfall storm of the season -- will
mutate from tropical storm to hurricane and how much rain will fall in the next
several days. The distance from Houston to Galveston on the Gulf of Mexico is
roughly fifty miles and, as I write, people there are already getting
clobbered. Since Hurricane Harvey’s arrival three years ago, I’ve never paid so
much attention to weather forecasts.
The passage quoted at the
top is from the letter Keats wrote to his friend John Hamilton Reynolds on this
date, September 22, in 1819. He goes on:
“Really, without joking,
chaste weather—Dian skies—I never liked stubble-fields so much as now—Aye
better than the chilly green of the Spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks
warm—in the same way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much in my
Sunday’s walk that I composed upon it.”
Three days earlier Keats
had something else to say about autumn. To his letter he adds: “I hope you are
better employed than in gaping after weather. I have been at different times so
happy as not to know what weather it was—No I will not copy a parcel of verses.”
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