[Camino Poem No. 2] Ode to Autumn

Starting in St. Jean Pied de Port, the first day of walking is a tough initiation. Twenty kilometers of relentless climbing through the Pyrenees before a short and steep descent into Roncesvalles, where cheerful Dutch volunteers offer welcome to the monastery-hostel.

It was beautiful. Rising out of the pre-dawn darkness, I turned to see great lakes of snow-white mist stretching to the horizon. The mountains were vast and green, and I loved the spaces between them. Gusts of wind balanced the August sun.

Halfway up the climb, I paused for lunch in a cafe with two Irish sisters in their 50s, who were beginning a week of walking together. After arriving at the monastery, I saw one of them again and asked if she would choose a poem. 'Twenty-seven', she said.

I had been plagued by fear earlier that day (should i have done some training for this? do I have bedbugs already? will i be lonely on this trip? is this really an effective way of making progress with my PhD writing?), and I took this poem as a reminder to let nature do the work. My job is just to harvest.

And however bad it can seem to be, 'thou hast thy music too'.

(thanks, mum, for the recommendation!)

Day 2 - Ode To Autumn – John Keats (1795-1821)

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.