I always liked the idea of Autumn feeling as sorry for Keats as Keats feels for Autumn.

Yes, this is John Keats. Autumn is sad because Keats is not well. : (
(IN FACT HE'S DEAD.) XD
but yeah, this is supposed to be when Keats writes To Autumn and is dying of TB. ;__; poor Jonneh.

I used a picture of keats as a reference, but changed it as he looked like a real dork. Like... bewildered and.... strange. Like a nerd caught in headlights!

Anyway.... This is for 's contest. i used a new brush, which probably wasn't a good idea since i'm totally not comfy with it yet, but I love the effect it gives you, like thick oil paints. :3 I completely forgot it was for a contest halfway through doing it so I'm just happy with the result, contest or not. =3

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'er-brimm'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 cider-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.

I LOVE MY ENGLISH COURSEWORK!