poet Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson

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The Name—of It—is 'Autumn'


The name—of it—is 'Autumn'—
The hue—of it—is Blood—
An Artery—upon the Hill—
A Vein—along the Road—

Great Globules—in the Alleys—
And Oh, the Shower of Stain—
When Winds—upset the Basin—
And spill the Scarlet Rain—

It sprinkles Bonnets—far below—
It gathers ruddy Pools—
Then—eddies like a Rose—away—
Upon Vermilion Wheels—

Topic(s) of this poem: autumn

Poem Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003
Poem Edited: Wednesday, December 3, 2014

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Read poems about / on: autumn, rose, rain, wind