Yellow Leaves, or None, or Few, do Hang

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

(WS, Sonnet 73)

As I cycled to Hetton Chapel yesterday, the crisp leaves of autumn gently drifted down to earth. The day was neither sunny nor windy, so prettier autumnal days have been enjoyed, but I still relished the sensation. For an hour and fifteen minutes, I travelled the lanes, passed farms and crossed rivers. Not far beyond the village of Gargrave, I parked my bike on the bridge over Eshton Beck and looked on to Eshton Hall. It was built in the style of the Elizabethans with which our sonneteer would have been familiar (though it is actually Regency). It seemed to have aged well, looking stately and serene while the tall trees were slowly divesting their golden leaves and the waters danced as they made their merry way to join the Aire. I could continue describing the marvellous scene: the bird song, the frenetic squirrels, and the rest, but did you spot it? Did you see the objectionable interloper in my picture? There is a great, rusty skip sitting in that field, like something from a knacker’s yard or liquidated builder’s merchant! How dare it spoil my bucolic vista!

Let the Bard continue:

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.

Just as this year is drawing to its close, so are we, and so am I. We might reasonably expect another few dozen autumns and annual cycles, but each one heralds the end with ever increasing volume. Our tenure here is short, and there are many for whom this autumn’s floating, golden leaves shall not be seen again.

This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

We may love each other the more knowing that we shall one day separate, and we may enjoy better each autumn in the light of our finite allowance of time and space. And yet we Christians have something better to behold, something worthier of contemplation, a hope stronger than temporal love or hurried affection. In contrast to all the long winters and fleeting summers of this life, the Lord Jesus promises a paradisical eternity to all who come to Him, a perfect endless summer of love and happiness, unspoilt by time and planetary rotation. Old skips spoil autumnal pics, but nothing shall ruin, compromise or upset our promised future with Jesus Christ:

And there shall be no night there; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever. Rev 22:5