by John Keats
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,
Drows'd 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 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 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 red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
by Samuel Egerton Brydges
Thou maid of gentle light, thy straw-wove vest
And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair;
Thy melancholy voice and languid air,
As if shut up within that pensive breast
Some never-to-be-divulged grief was pressed;
Thy looks resigned that smiles of patience wear
While winter's blasts thy scattered tresses tear,
Thee, autumn, with divinest charms have blessed!
Let blooming spring with gaudy hopes delight
That dazzling summer shall of her be born;
Let summer blaze; and winter's stormy train
Breathe awful music in the ear of night-Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn,
And from thy glance will catch the inspired strain.
by John Gould Fletcher
Evening and the clear sun
Slides down opal ways;
London like a crystal
Shines beneath my gaze.
Rosy, pearly, blue and brown,
Is the pale-washed sky;
Right and left, and up and down,
Gleaming roof-tops lie;
In the calm of autumn
All the city seems
A young giant dreaming
Fair and foolish dreams.
by Grace Caroline Simon
Chilly autumn announces the death of summer
By low-wailing winds that return once again
To chant their monotonous dirge to the forest
And mournfully sing their sad song to the glen.
The green of the hillside is changes now to somber
And flowerlets have bowed their small heads to the earth;
The brook in the meadow is still from its laughter
And birds’ songs no longer are filled with their mirth.
by Thomas Hood
The autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying:
He hath fathered up fold,
And now he is dying;
Old Age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping;
But some that have sow’d
Have no riches for reaping;
Poor wretch, fall a-weeping!
The year is in the want,
There is nothing adorning,
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;
Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill,
The red sun is sinking,
And I am grown old,
And life is fast shrinking;
Here is time for sad thinking!
by Ernestine Northover
The wind swirls leaves in all directions,
Tumbling them down upon this earth,
Releasing them from their connections,
To inhabit yet another berth.
Layers of them are now descending,
Carpeting the land's cold ground,
Colours meticulously blending,
Burnished copper spread around.
All in their distinct formations,
Each with different hues to see,
Parading now in damp locations,
Drifters off upon a spree.
Autumn's changing shades are warming,
Embroidering a patchwork quilt
Across the open plains transforming,
Embellishing with golden gilt.
The wind swirls leaves in all directions,
Tumbling them down in gentle flight,
Trees then watch for a resurrection
Of the spring's fresh appetite.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,
With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,
Brighter than brightest silks of Samarcand,
And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand
Outstretched with benedictions o'er the land,
Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!
Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspended
So long beneath the heaven's o'er-hanging eaves;
Thy steps are by the farmer's prayers attended;
Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;
And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,
Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!
by Julia Field Brown
Mother Autumn! Do not go!
But come, and let us lie beneath this burnished tree
Were swings a blood-red vine;
Then let us count the golden balls upon the mountain ash,
And let us drink the tingling wine
That feeds these purple clusters;
And let me keep your warm breath on my cheek, Mother mine.
The ghost-vine swings in barren tree; Grey night crouches low.
O let me close this heavy gate against those leaden clouds,
They march as armies lead by traitor grim
Or death.
Mother Autumn! Do not go!
I loved you so!
by Mary Oliver
Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back
from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere
except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle
of unobservable mysteries - - -roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water.
This I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - - - how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.
October Reminder: Nothing old can stay
Ohio in October is pretty enough to turn the Ivy League brown with envy and make
California launch a recall of the calendar. Leaves like shattered pieces of summer
sunlight dapple the emerald lawns as if all the colors in the crayon box showed up to
throw a going-away party for green. This is what fall is supposed to look like in our
memories---even if we grew up in Egypt. This is the postcard, the painting, the mental
screensaver of a time that is almost more of an emotion than a matched set of months.
Autumn is Vivaldi played by Segovia on a classical guitar, with each note rich and
mellow. Every dwindling day feels as precious as gold coins that spin and sparkle high
in the treetops. The earth whispers its secrets of life and earth in the musty, papery smell
of fallen leaves. The forest beckons. Scarlet maples put on their lipstick, red as a bottled
July sunrise.
Even a short walk around the block makes one’s feet itch to keep going on forever, over
the horizon, beyond the tree lines and meadows, down farm lanes and country roads, just
for the sake of simply walking under the crisp blue sky. It is the season of irony and
paradox.
At the same time families are scattered apart, blown by the fall winds of football, band
work and school, they are also knitted closer together, drawn nearer to each other as we
mourn the passing of summer and celebrate our blessings.
The sound of a distant marching band. The exotic incense of a candle burning inside a
pumpkin. A subtle change in the light, as it thins out on sunny days. The lonesome color
of the sky at dusk as leaves rattle in the wind like bleached bones in summer’s cemetery.
All these elements are fall, but they are incomplete. There is another ingredient we bring.
When the color knob is turned up on the world around us, contrast is increased, and our
picture becomes more intense and vivid. We suddenly notice the sharp details that were
blurred in an August haze, because we know this October day won’t last, and one
morning we will climb shivering out of bed and find the white shroud of winter draped
over the earth.
Our rituals and customs of fall are yoked to an ancient sundial that grew close to the
ground, flowing the rhythms of agriculture. But the cycles remain, woven into our lives,
a tapestry of seasons that come and go and come again. We put away the shorts and drag
out the flannel. We pick the last of the tomatoes and peppers, and put on a kettle of soup.
And if we are wise and careful enough to just sit and admire the beauty all around us, we
draw the perennial lesson from the season that returns like frost on roses: Nothing lasts
forever.
Make the most of life as if all life is a rare October day.