Top 100 Poems About: AUTUMN
Top 100 Poems on / about
- carpe diem
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! read more »Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
2.Ode To Autumn
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; read more »John Keats
3.Autumn River Song
The moon shimmers in green water.
White herons fly through the moonlight.
The young man hears a girl gathering water-chestnuts: read more »Li Po
I cried over beautiful things knowing no beautiful thing lasts.
The field of cornflower yellow is a scarf at the neck of the copper
sunburned woman, the mother of the year, the taker of seeds. read more »Carl Sandburg
Lord: it is time. The summer was immense.
Lay your shadow on the sundials
and let loose the wind in the fields. read more »Rainer Maria Rilke
a worm digs silently
into the chestnut. read more »Matsuo Basho
Like a joy on the heart of a sorrow,
The sunset hangs on a cloud;
A golden storm of glittering sheaves,
Of fair and frail and fluttering leaves, read more »Sarojini Naidu
The leaves are falling, falling as if from far up,
as if orchards were dying high in space.
Each leaf falls as if it were motioning "no." read more »Rainer Maria Rilke
Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn. read more »Charles Baudelaire
Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing read more »Dante Gabriel Rossetti
It is autumn; not without
But within me is the cold.
Youth and spring are all about;
It is I that have grown old. read more »Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot. read more »John Clare