A breath, whence no man knows,
Swaying the grating weeds, it blows;
It comes, it grieves, it goes.
Once it rocked the summer rose.
• I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn:—
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Hood—Ode. Autumn.
The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd urj gold, .
And now he is dying;—
Old age, begin sighing!
Hood—Autumn.
The year's in the wane;
There is nothing adorning;
The night has no eve,
And the day has no morning;
Cold winter gives warning!
Hood^—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 thatcheaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core.
Keats—To Autumn.
Third act of the eternal play!
In poster-like emblazonries
"Autumn once more begins today"—
'Tis written all across the trees
In yellow letters like Chinese.
Richard Le Gallienne—The Eternal Play.
It was AutumD, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.
| author = Longfellow
| work = Pegasus in Pound.
What visionary tints the year puts on,
When falling leaves falter through motionless air
Or numbly cling and shiver to be gone!
How shimmer the low fiats and pastures bare,
As with her nectar Hebe Autumn fills
The bowl between me and those distant hills,
And smiles and shakes abroad her misty, tremulous hair!
| author = Lowell
| work = An Indian Summer Reverie.
Every season hath its pleasures;
Spring may boast her flowery prime,
Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures
Brighten Autumn's sob'rer time.
Moore—Spring and Autumn.
Autumn
Into earth's lap does throw
Brown apples gay in a game of play,
As the equinoctials blow.
D. M. Mulock—October.
Sorrow and the scarlet leaf,
Sad thoughts and sunny weather;
Ah me! this glory and this grief
Agree not well together!
T. W. Parsons—A Song for September.
Ye flowers that drop, forsaken by the spring,
Ye birds that, left by summer, cease to sing,
Ye trees that fade, when Autumn heats remove,
Say, is not absence death to those who love?
| author = Pope
| work = Pastorals. Autumn. L. 27.
Thus sung the shepherds till th' approach of
night,
The skies yet blushing with departing light,
When falling dews with spangles deck'd the
glade,
And the low sun had lengthened every shade.
| author = Pope
| work = Pastorals. Autumn. Last lines.
O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a
clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's
in the shock.
James Whitcomb Riley—When the Frost is
on the Punkin.
This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be overrun.
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation.
Rossetti—AvXumn Idleness.
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are
dying;
And the year
On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves
dead,
Is lying.
Come, months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
Shelley—Autumn. A Dirge.
Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain,
Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune
That death smote silent when he smote again.
Swinburne—Autumn and Winter. I.
{{Hoyt quote
| num = | text = <poem>Autumn has come;
Storming now heaveth the deep sea with foam, Yet would I gratefully lie there, Willingly die there. Esaias Tegner—Fridthjofs Saga. Ingeborg's Lament.'
