Frances Anne Kemble

(27 November 1809 - 15 January 1893 / London, England)

Autumn Song - Poem by Frances Anne Kemble

The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when the leaves begin to fall,
When the chestnut-trees turn yellow and sere,
And the flowers are withering one and all;
When the thick green sward is growing brown,
And the honeysuckle berries are red,
And the oak is shaking its acorns down,
And the dry twigs snap 'neath the woodman's tread.
The merriest dance that e'er was seen
Is the headlong dance of the whirling leaves,
And the rattling stubble that flies between
The yellow ranks of the barley sheaves.
The merriest song that e'er was heard
Is the song of the sobbing autumn wind;
When the thin bare boughs of the elm are stirr'd,
And shake the black ivy round them twined.
The merriest time of all the year
Is the time when all things fade and fall,
When the sky is bleak, and the earth is drear,
Oh, that's the merriest month of all.

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Poem Submitted: Monday, September 6, 2010

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