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
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.
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 hearth fire waiting.
The west wind's sighs are of love, not sorrow,
And the sunset sky is the sign for tomorrow.
Autumn, Autumn, you did not see me spying
When you laid your hand caressingly on summer’s drowsy head,
But I saw her start and shiver,
And I saw her wake and quiver,
For your touch was cold as snow-time
Though your mouth was flaming red.
Autumn, Autumn, you did not see me watching
As you crept among the grasses and swayed them with your breath.
When the wild flowers bent to meet you,
And the trees reached out to greet you,
For they thought your touch was beauty
But they found your kiss was death!
Autumn, Autumn, I hate you and I love you,
For with all your flame and passion you are nothing but a thief,
Though you rival spring’s flame-magic,
You are a lover old and tragic,
And your purple, gold and crimson
But a mask to hide your grief.
An April burst of beauty,
And a May like the Mays of old.
And a glow of summer gladness
While June her long days told;
And a hush of golden silence
All through the bright July,
Without one peal of thunder,
Or a storm-wreath in the sky;
And a fiery reign of August,
Till the moon was on the wane;
And then short clouded evenings,
And a long and chilling rain.
I thought the summer was over,
And the whole year's glory spent,
And that nothing but fog and drizzle
Could be for Autumn meant; —
Nothing but dead leaves, falling
Wet on the dark, damp mold.
Less and less of the sunshine,
More and more of the cold.
Is thy life-summer passing?
Think not thy joys are o'er!
Thou hast not seen what Autumn
For thee may have in store.
Calmer than breezy April,
Cooler than August blaze.
The fairest time of all may be
September's golden days.
Press on, though Summer waneth,
And falter not, nor fear,
For God can make the Autumn
The glory of the year.
I walked in the silence of Autumn,
Through solitude's sacred retreat;
I sighed with the winds of November,
Where Summer had bowed in defeat;
Defeat, for her green leaves were faded.
Defeat, for the bloom was in blight,
And the balmy breath of her mornings,
Had changed to the chill of the night.
And yet, as I paused in the silence.
Sweet voices sighed soft through the air,
And though death was stamped on the flowers,
Yet death was transcendently fair;
I gathered the leaves which had fallen.
Their greenness and freshness were lost.
Yet, dying, they gained in the glory,
Bestowed by the sunlight and frost.
The tints of imperial purple,
The crimson, the russet, and brown.
And gold like the fringe of the morning.
In beauty had woven a crown;
And this, on the brow of November,
Flashed out in the light of the sun,
Till dying was grander than living.
And death was a victory won.
I saw in the silence of Autumn,
And solitude's sacred retreat,
That death, while so cheerless to many,
Could blush into beauty complete,
Could out-glow the glory of living.
And blaze in the face of decay,
November with touches of splendor
Out-blushing the blushes of May.
And so I have seen in the human.
Such lives as were grand to behold;
Like forests in frosts of November,
Whose glory was crownings of gold.
Sublime in the vale of the dying,
As their songs triumphantly roll.
The sweet hallelujahs of Autumn,
Breathed out as the joy of the soul.
So the good, like leaves which are falling,
Are beautiful in their decay;
The tintings which grandly adorn them.
Are glints of eternity's day.
They fall, but they fall in their beauty.
In beauty's increase they arise.
They bask in the noonday of heaven.
And glow in the glow of the skies.
I am the Autumn, when "the frost is on
The pumpkin, and the fodder's in the shock."
Within the fields are piles of golden corn;
And apples - yellow, red, and green and gold -
In luscious richness hang upon the trees.
The wayside pond and ev'ry bowing hedge
Are fringed deep with bittersweet and fern.
The cattle browse amidst the residue
Of grass, on browning fields o' er hill and vale;
While solemn blackbirds and the cawing crows
Convention hold with grave and scolding rooks
Where once the wren and robin filled the choir.
The boastful cock rings out his "chanticleer"
That greets the lighted lamp, presage of dawn.
O'er all the lilting earth, the eye takes in
The forest, meadow too, and then the hill:
And afar - the mountains where are outdone
The rainbow's color, shades and brilliant hues:
All red and crimson, purple, saffron, too;
Magenta, orange, blue and yellow bands
So well shot through with evergreen and bronze.
Along the garden walks, the marigold,
Coxcomb, and mango red, bow low their heads:
And, here and there, amidst the ruin's waster
Where beauty's temple rose among the flowers
Petunias old and golden glow still peep
And wait the harder stroke to lay them low:
While brighter, colder grows the moon each night:
From blackened chimneys wisps of smoke curl out.
There is a crispness and a tang in all
The circumambient air that brings new thrusts
Of frost, and wind and sun and stars:
Bright, sunny days, and colder, deeper nights.
Of all the days, the months, and seasons of
The year my hours bring gayest thought and cheer
Frosty is the morning, and the air is chill;
Nature, robed in beauty, bows to Autumn's will;
Leaves of gold and crimson thickly fly and fall,
Stormy wind in eddies drives them one and all;
Down they come in showers all around our feet;
In the wood and meadow, in the vale and street,
By the hedge and thicket, over marsh and plain -
Ev'ry where they're whirling to the earth amain.
Soon the sun, arising, casts a cheerful smile;
Now he's brightly beaming, now he hides a while.
Think you he is frowning over what he
Over withered verdure, over naked trees?
Nay, he runs his circuit just the same along,
Shining without ceasing, beautiful and strong;
Ruling all the seasons with his welcome glow,
As they in rotation swiftly come and go.
As the leaves of autumn wither in the cold,
So our mortal bodies soon will turn to mold,
But our spirits never; they'll outlive the sun,
Throughout ages they'll live on and on.
Therefore let us hasten wisdom to impart
To the lost and dying, to the faint in heart;
Speak of lasting comfort, happiness, and love;
Point them to the Savior and to heaven above.
Poet: John Rowland
How calm, how sweet the days of autumn seem!
The dreary earth is like a pleasing dream:
October's sun makes paradise of noon;
The starry night pays homage to the moon;
The sun by day, the moon and stars by night,
Fill every sense with strange and pure delight.
Through all the long hot summer days have run
Swift messengers to wait upon the sun,
To spread the banquet for the autumn feast,
For she among the season's lot the least.
Into old Autumn's lap the ripe fruits fall,
While all the trees and shrubs, or great or small.
As if to worship with the fruit they bring,
A whole year's large and bounteous offering.
She bids the idlers taste and take their fill,
While frisky squirrels gather where they will;
She feeds the tiny birds, that know no care,
With seeds dropped here and there and everywhere.
The fairies, riding on the fresh'ning breeze,
Bend down the topmost branches of the trees,
Where hangs the apples, red and russet brown;
That to the grassy mead come tumbling down,
While age bent low and youth together pass,
To find unharmed the fruit among the grass.
She dips the maples in a rainbow dye,
To please the wondrous gaze of passers-by;
And day by day the marvelous colors grow,
Till every leaf and fern are all aglow.
The winter king she watches close with care;
Lest some dread sign should make the good despair,
She bids the hopeless mortal look and see
Death's emblem as a pleasing mystery.
Poet: Berton Braley
Frost on the trees-on the grass,
A lilt to the steps that pass;
Tang in the air - a breeze
Waking an old unease;
Haze when the day's begun.
Dawn that is brisk and chill.
Challenge and zest in the sun,
Setting the blood a thrill!!
Fall! - and the ducks are flying
South on their ancient route.
Hear them calling and crying!
Hunter - come out! Come out!
Fall - and the forest places
Harbor the leaping deer.
Think of those wooded spaces,
Think of the campfire's cheer!
The sound, sweet sleep, the lisp
Of the leaves in the wind, the crisp
And cleanly smell of the pines;
Then the thrill of the chase- to find
The track of a buck; the signs
Of his light-foot path, and to read
His ways; and to pit your mind
Against the sight and the scent
And the wariness and speed
Of the wild free thing you stalk:
Then the shot- and the proud content
Of bringing your prize to camp;
And, after the sturdy tramp.
Supper and smoke and - talk.
Ah, that is living indeed!
Why do you wait and doubt?
Hunter— come out! Come out!
Fall- and a sapphire sky.
And your blood in a flood that races,
And the call of the ducks that fly,
And the lure of the hunting places!
Fall- and the air's astir
With the tingle of life- the whirr
Of a myriad wings
And the movement of wild wild things!
Fall - and the call to you
To come as you used to do
Back on the good old route.
Hunter— come out! Come out!
The Autumn Woods
Poet: Eva Beede Odell
What beauty in the autumn woods!
Where in the calm, deep solitudes,
The amber sunshine finds its way,
And checkered light and shadows play.
Such beauty everywhere we turn!
The moss-grown rock and drooping fern,
The woodland flowers and trailing vines,
The singing brooks and sighing pines,
The murmur of the gentle breeze
That stirs the yellow chestnut-leaves
Till softly in the grasses brown
The round and prickly burs drop down.
The maples are in bright array
Of mottled gold and crimson gay;
The oak in deepest scarlet dressed;
In cloth of gold are all the rest,
Except that now and then between
There stands a tall dark evergreen
That sheds its spicy fragrance round,
And drops its cones upon the ground
With asters white and purple tinged,
And golden-rod, the woods are fringed,
With scarlet berries peeping through
Where wild grapes hang of purple hue,
And fiery-fingered ivy clings,
While milk-weed floats on downy wings.
The crickets chirp and insects hum,
For glorious Autumn now has come.
How will it be when the roses fade
Out of the garden and out of the glade?
When the fresh pink bloom of the sweet-brier wild,
That leans from the dell like the cheek of a child,
Is changed for dry hips on a thorny bush?
Then scarlet and carmine the groves will flush.
How will it be when the autumn flowers
Wither away from their leafless bowers;
When sun-flower and star-flower and golden-rod
Glimmer no more from the frosted sod;
And hillside nooks are empty and cold?
Then the forest-tops will be gay with gold.
How will it be when the woods turn brown,
Their gold and their crimson all dropped down.
And crumbled to dust? Oh then, as we lay
Our ear to earth's lips, we shall hear her say,
"In the dark I am seeking new gems for my crown."
We will dream of green leaves when the woods turn brown.
Poet: Ellen Mackay Hutchinson
Red leaf, gold leaf,
Flutter down the wind:
Life is brief, oh! life is brief,
But Mother Earth is kind;
From her dear bosom ye shall spring
To new blossoming.
The red leaf, the gold leaf,
They have had their way;
Love is long if life be brief, -
Life is but a day;
And Love from Grief and Death shall spring
To new blossoming.