Zivan Vujcic, ©2005
Yellow leaves are falling
covering the ground in gold,
through the forest I'm strolling
watching a circle that the nature has just made,
but why do I feel old
when the summer colours start to fade?
Every leaf that has fallen
reminds me of grey in my hair
that passing time has stolen
which once used to be long and fair,
every bird that has flown to south
like another breath taken from my mouth
While days are getting shorter
and flies are dancing their last,
life enters into its final quarter
how the time is passing so fast, I realize
yesterday is already today's past
before tomorrow brings a new surprise
I wish I was here and there in my life
but to many places I've never been
while the thick fog is still rolling
that could almost be cut with a knife
through this autumn morning
and the sun behind dark clouds can't be seen
Listening to this tapping sound
of the rain pouring to the ground
and the wind playing with the last leaves at will
in whisps they will be scattered
butterflies are dead, their dust shattered
but the colours of their wings remain, still
Poet - Robert Frost
A scent of ripeness from over a wall.
And come to leave the routine road
And look for what had made me stall,
There, sure enough was an apple tree
That had eased itself of its summer load.
And of all but its trivial foiliage free,
Now breathed as light as a lady’s fan.
For there had been an apple fall
As complete as the apple had given man.
The ground was one circle of solid red.
May something always go unharvested!
May much stay out of our stated plan,
Apples or something forgotten and left,
So smelling their sweetness would be no theft.
An October Garden
Poet: Christina Rossetti, 1830 - 1894
In my Autumn garden I was fain
To mourn among my scattered roses;
Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn's languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
Nor heard the nightingale in tune.
Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
You are but coarse compared with roses:
More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses,
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
A rose it is though least and last of all,
A rose to me though at the fall.
Poet - Laura Lee Randall
A sunset sky, and the west wind sighing,
A threat of winter . . . The wild gulls crying;
Swift flocks of birds to the southland winging;
Bare brown boughs in a frenzy flinging
Dying leaves that for long were holden,
Now driting, dropping, crimson and golden.
The fallen leaves, in uncounted number,
Are warmly quilting the wildflowers' slumber;
There are buds on the bough...a springtime presage…
The birds will return with a lyric message:
The wild gull's cry holds a hint of mating,
To conquer cold is the hearthfire waiting.
The west wind's sighs are of love, not sorrow,
And the sunset sky is the sign for tomorrow.
Poet: Trumbull Stickney, 1874 - 1904
These autumn gardens, russet, gray and brown,
The sward with shrivelled foliage strown,
The shrubs and trees
By weary wings of sunshine overflown
And timid silences, -
Since first you, darling, called my spirit yours,
Seem happy, and the gladness pours
From day to day,
And yester-year across this year endures
Unto next year away.
Now in these places where I used to rove
And give the dropping leaves my love
And weep to them,
They seem to fall divinely from above,
Like to a diadem
Closing in one with the disheartened flowers.
High up the migrant birds in showers
Shine in the sky,
And all the movement of the natural hours
Turns into melody.