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AUTUMN POEMS
Welcome to autumn poems.
Though it's often a time for sadness as summer ends, the
coming of autumn (or fall as it's called in America) is a
beautiful time with the leaves turning to their autumnal
colours and the world coming ablaze before the chill of winter.
Here's a classic by John Keats,
To Autumn
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
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,
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;
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 twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
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 barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Autumn
Author unknown
'Tis autumn now; the corn is cut,
But other gifts for us are spread,
The purple plum, the ripe brown nut,
And pears and apples, streaked with red,
Among the dark green branches shine,
Or on the grass beneath them fall;
While full green clusters deck the vine
That trails o'er trellis, roof, and wall.
In our dear land the la-den trees
Be-speak God's providence and love;
He sends all needful gifts like these
For those who trust in Him above.
How good is He to make such choice
Of pleasant fruits for us to grow!
'Tis meet, indeed, that we rejoice
In Him who loves His children so.
Thanks for visiting our autumn poems.
We'd love to hear from you if you'd like to submit any poetry
to this site.
Though it's often a time for sadness as summer ends, the
coming of autumn (or fall as it's called in America) is a
beautiful time with the leaves turning to their autumnal
colours and the world coming ablaze before the chill of winter.
Here's a classic by John Keats,
To Autumn
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-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
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,
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;
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 twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
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 barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
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;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Autumn
Author unknown
'Tis autumn now; the corn is cut,
But other gifts for us are spread,
The purple plum, the ripe brown nut,
And pears and apples, streaked with red,
Among the dark green branches shine,
Or on the grass beneath them fall;
While full green clusters deck the vine
That trails o'er trellis, roof, and wall.
In our dear land the la-den trees
Be-speak God's providence and love;
He sends all needful gifts like these
For those who trust in Him above.
How good is He to make such choice
Of pleasant fruits for us to grow!
'Tis meet, indeed, that we rejoice
In Him who loves His children so.
Thanks for visiting our autumn poems.
We'd love to hear from you if you'd like to submit any poetry
to this site.