Alas, it has been a season of yawns and weary sighs,
Each and every morning met with dreary eyes;
The sluggish shuffles; the weight of the world upon;
Several moons have waned since hope has shone.
Far too many dawns have passed, it must be confessed,
Which have been welcomed without an inkling of zest.
All that remains is a grim incessant strain
As you see all your vigour trickle down life's drain.
It is now you have a choice: shed a tear and cry
Whilst watching your spirits languidly die,
Or take the deepest of breaths and roll up your sleeves
And begin sweeping away these gaunt autumn leaves...
Choose the latter, I implore, for it is the one that revives,
And remember how ever slow she may be, Spring always arrives!
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Autumn Leaves by Jack Growden )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1644 - 1694)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Henry David Thoreau
(12 July 1817 – 6 May 1862)
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