Henry David Thoreau (12 July 1817 – 6 May 1862 / Concord, Massachusetts)
I am the Autumnal Sun
Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.
I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief...
Poet Other Poems
- All Things Are Current Found
- Away! Away! Away! Away!
- Epitaph On The World
- Great God, I Ask for no Meaner Pelf
- I am a Parcel of Vain Strivings Tied
- I am the Autumnal Sun
- I Knew A Man By Sight
- I was Made Erect and Lone
- Indeed, Indeed I Cannot Tell
- Let such pure hate still underprop
- Light-Winged Smoke
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.