Autumn quotes & poems

I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers. It would be terrible if we just skipped from September to November, wouldn’t it?

October was a beautiful month at Green Gables, when the birches in the hollow turned as golden as sunshine and the maples behind the orchard were royal crimson and the wild cherry-trees along the lane put on the loveliest shades of dark red and bronzy green, while the fields sunned themselves in aftermaths.

Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;Conspiring with him how to load and blessWith 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 shellsWith 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.

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 mournAmong the river sallows, borne aloftOr sinking as the light wind lives or dies;And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble softThe red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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.

Besides the autumn poets sing,A few prosaic daysA little this side of the snowAnd that side of the haze.A few incisive mornings,A few ascetic eyes, —Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.Still is the bustle in the brook,Sealed are the spicy valves;Mesmeric fingers softly touchThe eyes of many elves.Perhaps a squirrel may remain,My sentiments to share.Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,Thy windy will to bear!

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s beingThou from whose unseen presence the leaves deadAre driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thouWho chariotest to their dark wintry bedThe wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,Each like a corpse within its grave, untilThine azure sister of the Spring shall blowHer clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)With living hues and odours plain and hill;Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;—Shaking his languid locks all dewy brightWith tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Let life be beautiful like summer flowers and death like autumn leaves.

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

That time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west;Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

How like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!What old December’s bareness everywhere!And yet this time removed was summer’s time;The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:Yet this abundant issue seem’d to meBut hope of orphans, and unfather’d fruit;For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And, thou away, the very birds are mute:Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near.

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 handOutstretched with benedictions o'er the land,Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!Thy shield is the red harvest moon, suspendedSo 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!

It was October again when Anne was ready to go back to school—a glorious October, all red and gold, with mellow mornings when the valleys were filled with delicate mists as if the spirit of autumn had poured them in for the sun to drain—amethyst, pearl, silver, rose, and smoke-blue.