Poems about Autumn

To Autumn

by: William Blake (1757-1827)

O Autumn , laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and
Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

Autumn

by: Anna Katherine Green (1846-1935)

To live, to love and then to die
While life and love are pure and sweet
As April's mingled smile and sigh
In which all hopeful fancies meet,
Is not so sad; more sad to me,
It were to see
The falling leaves, the clouding sky,
To look around and miss the free
Glad singing of the birds, and sigh
In vain for hopes and days gone by.

Autumn

by: Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

The morns are meeker than they were,

The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town.

The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.

Autumn

by: Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Oh the sight of a tall shedding tree: to us it has grown to the limit of the sky that breaks through its branches.

Filled with summer, almost thoughtful, its faithful head seemed deep and thick. But now its bones cross the sky like streets. And the sky doesn't know us.

At best, if we tried to warp like birds through new openings, we would be denied by the right of space to consort only with worlds.

Like flags, the waves we feel in our seams seek the connection and comfort of open spaces— . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But the crown of the tree appears like homesickness.

Autumn Day

by: Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)

Lord, it is time. Summer was very grand. Now cast your shadow on the sundials, and loose the winds on the open fields.

Command the last fruits to be full; give them two more southerly days. Force them into perfection and chase the last sweetness into heavy wine.

Who has no house will not build one now. Who is now alone will stay alone, will wake and read and write long letters and wander up and down the streets restlessly, driven like leaves.