Our autumn library

A selection of poems that we think are perfect to read in autumn

After The Rain

Whatever haunting care of life
   About my spirit cleaves,
If I but walk abroad awhile
   Among the breathing leaves,
It seems as it were left behind
   Beneath the cottage eaves.
I do not ask for singing birds,
   Or floods of golden light;
For if I do but ope the door
   On a dull autumn night,
The shining rain-drops on the grass
   Will set my spirit right.

Michael Field (1846-1914)​

From Autumn and Sunset

Hail, sober Autumn! thee I love,
Thy healthful breeze and clear blue sky;
And more than flowers of Spring admire
Thy falling leaves of richer dye.

'Twas even thus when life was young,
 I welcomed Autumn with delight;
Although I knew that with it came
The shorter day and lengthened night.

 Let others pass October by,
 Or dreary call its hours, or chill;
 Let poets always sing of Spring,
 My praise shall be of Autumn still.

And I have loved the setting sun,
E'en than his rising beams more dear;
'Tis fitting time for serious thought,
It is an hour for solemn prayer.

Before the evening closes in,
Or night's dark curtains round us fall,
See how o'er tree, and spire, and hill,
That setting sun illumines all.

Mary Ann H. T.  Bigelow (? -1870)​​​

​Autumn’s Gold

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,
The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;
And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise
Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses;
And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,
Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes --
Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies,
And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore
That make the western river-beds so bright,
The briar and the furze are all alight!
Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,
But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,
And autumn old has shone into a Day!

George Macdonald (1824-1905)​

Autumn Trees

But yesterday a world of haze,
      To-day, a glory of colour and light!
Like golden voices shouting praise
      The bright trees flame along the height.

Who would have thought, the summer through,
      Each separate tree of all the choir,
Lifting its green against the blue,
      Held at its heart such flame and fire?

Richard Watson Gilder (1844-1909)​​​

Blackberry

Hedge is like a breaking wave;
Thorns are stinging like the sea. --
Lean tiptoe, or plunge, to pick
Sparkling clustered blackberry.

Savage little eyes they keep
Blinking through their juicy spray.
Every-hidden-where they peep,
Tantalizing us all day.

Oh, a wild and dusky store,
Plentiful and free to all:
We will keep a Blackberry Feast --
Bramble-jelly-festival.

Boys with baskets empty-full,
Girls, with happy laughter, singing,
Wander everywhere to pull.
Small sweet children call and run
And prick their little fingers; autumn sun
Glitters over everyone.

Everybody will be bringing
Fragrant loads by field and hill
Homeward into Blackberry Mill.

Harold Monro (1879-1932)​

What is pink?

What is pink? a rose is pink
By a fountain's brink.
What is red? a poppy's red
In its barley bed.
What is blue? the sky is blue
Where the clouds float thro'.
What is white? a swan is white
Sailing in the light.
What is yellow? pears are yellow,
Rich and ripe and mellow.
What is green? the grass is green,
With small flowers between.
What is violet? clouds are violet
In the summer twilight.
What is orange? Why, an orange,
Just an orange!

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) ​

De Profundis

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.​
​
Christina Rossetti (1894-1894)

From OnThe Borders of Cannock Chase

A cottager leaned whispering by her hives,
Telling the bees some news, as they lit down,
And entered one by one their waxen town.
Larks passioning hung o'er their brooding wives,
And all the sunny hills where heather thrives
Lay satisfied with peace. A stately crown
Of trees enringed the upper headland brown,
And reedy pools, wherein the moor-hen dives,
Glittered and gleamed.
A resting-place for light,
They that were bred here love it;

Jean Ingelow (1820-1897)​

Green
 
The dawn was apple-green,  
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,  
The moon was a golden petal between.  
​
She opened her eyes, and green  
They shone, clear like flowers undone 
For the first time, now for the first time seen. 

D H Lawrence (1885-1930) ​

Listening

There is a place of grass
With daisies like white pools,
Or shining islands in a sea
Of brightening waves.

Swallows, darting, brush
The waves of gentle green,
As though a wide still lake it were,
Not living grass.

Evening draws over all,
Grass and flowers and sky,
And one rich bird prolongs the sweet
Of day on the edge of dark.

The grass is dim, the stars
Lean down the height of heaven;
And the trees, listening in all their leaves,
Scarce-breathing stand.

Nothing is as it was:
The bird on the bough sings on;
The night, pure from the cloud of day,
Is listening.

John Freeman (1880-1929)

Longing

Come in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.
​
Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)

Near Autumn

Red apple in the leaves,
Red robin on the bough,
The oats are all in sheaves --
   Where’s summer now?

White foam along the sea,
White mist upon the dawn,
No flower for the bee --
   ‘Tis summer gone.

Blackbird is silent, lone,
Blackberry decks the spray;
And Autumn’s breath has blown
   Upon the day.

Laurence Alma-Tadema (1865-1940)​

November Blue 

O, Heavenly colour! London town 
Has blurred it from her skies; 
And hooded in an earthly brown, 
Unheaven'd the city lies. 
No longer standard-like this hue 
Above the broad road flies; 
Nor does the narrow street the blue 
Wear, slender pennon-wise. 

But when the gold and silver lamps 
Colour the London dew, 
And, misted by the winter damps, 
The shops shine bright anew - 
Blue comes to earth, it walks the street, 
It dyes the wide air through; 
A mimic sky about their feet, 
The throng go crowned with blue. 

Alice Meynell (1847 - 1922) ​

September

Wind and the robin’s note today
Have heard of autumn and betray
  The green long reign of summer.
The rust is falling in the leaves,
September stands besides the sheaves,
  The new, the happy comer.

Not sad my season of the red
And russet orchards gaily spread
  From Cholesbury to Cooming,
Nor sad when twilit valley trees
Are ships becalmed on misty seas,
  And beetles go abooming.

Now soon shall come the morning crowds
Of starlings, soon the coloured clouds
  From oak and ash and willow,
And soon the thorn and briar shall be
Rich in their crimson livery,
  In scarlet and in yellow.

Spring laughed and thrilled a million veins,
And summer shone above her rains
  To fill September’s faring;
September talks as kings who know
The world’s way and superbly go
  In robes of wisdom’s wearing.

John Drinkwater (1882–1937)

from The Beechnut Gatherer

All over the earth like a mantle,
  Golden, and green, and grey,
Crimson, and scarlet, and yellow,
  The Autumn foliage lay.
The sun of the Indian Summer
  Laughed at the bare old trees,
As they shook their leafless branches
  In the soft autumnal breeze.

I walked where the leaves the softest,
  The brightest, and goldenest lay;
And I thought of a forest hill-side
  And an Indian Summer day,
An eager, little child-face,
  O’er the fallen leaves that bent,
As she gathered her cup of beechnuts
  With innocent content.

I thought of the small brown fingers,
  Gleaning them one by one;
With the partridge drumming near her
  In the forest bare and dun,
And the jet-black squirrel winking
  His saucy jealous eye
At those tiny, pilfering fingers,
  From his sly nook up on high.
​
Pamelia Sarah Vining Yule (1825–97)

from The Lady of the Lake 
​
And now, to issue from the glen,  
No pathway meets the wanderer’s ken,  
Unless he climb, with footing nice  
A far projecting precipice.  
The broom’s tough roots his ladder made,  
The hazel saplings lent their aid;  
And thus an airy point he won,  
Where, gleaming with the setting sun,  
One burnished sheet of living gold,  
Loch Katrine lay beneath him rolled,  
In all her length far winding lay,  
With promontory, creek, and bay,  
And islands that, empurpled bright,  
Floated amid the livelier light,  
And mountains, that like giants stand,  
To sentinel enchanted land.   
​
Walter Scott (1771-1832) ​

Ruth 
​
She stood breast hight among the corn, 
Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek and autumn flush, 
Deeply ripened; –such a blush 
In the misdst of brown was born, 
Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell, 
But long lashes veiled a light, 
That had else been all too bright.  
​
And her hat, with shady brim, 
Made her tressy forehead dim; 
Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks: ​

Sure, I said, Heav’n did not mean, 
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; 
Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
Share my harvest and my home. 
 
Thomas Hood  (1799 – 1845) ​

The Garden

How vainly men themselves amaze
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their uncessant labours see
Crown’d from some single herb or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all flow’rs and all trees do close
To weave the garlands of repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men;
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude,
To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So am’rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress’ name;
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion’s heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The gods, that mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race:
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wond’rous life in this I lead!
Ripe apples drop about my head;
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine and curious peach
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons as I pass,
Ensnar’d with flow’rs, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find,
Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that’s made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,
Or at some fruit tree’s mossy root,
Casting the body’s vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide;
There like a bird it sits and sings,
Then whets, and combs its silver wings;
And, till prepar’d for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk’d without a mate;
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But ’twas beyond a mortal’s share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises ’twere in one
To live in paradise alone.

How well the skillful gard’ner drew
Of flow’rs and herbs this dial new,
Where from above the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run;
And as it works, th’ industrious bee
Computes its time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckon’d but with herbs and flow’rs!​
​​
Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

The Homecoming of the Sheep

The sheep are coming home in Greece,
Hark the bells on every hill!
Flock by flock, and fleece by fleece,
Wandering wide a little piece
Thro’ the evening red and still,
Stopping where the pathways cease,
Cropping with a hurried will.

Thro’ the cotton-bushes low
Merry boys with shouldered crooks
Close them in a single row,
Shout among them as they go
With one bell-ring o’er the brooks.
Such delight you never know
Reading it from gilded books.

Before the early stars are bright
Cormorants and sea-gulls call,
And the moon comes large and white
Filling with a lovely light
The ferny curtained waterfall.
Then sleep wraps every bell up tight
And the climbing moon grows small.

Francis Ledwidge (1887–1917)

The little dancers
 
Lonely, save for a few faint stars, the sky
Dreams; and lonely, below, the little street
Into its gloom retires, secluded and shy.
Scarcely the dumb roar enters this soft retreat;
And all is dark, save where come flooding rays
From a tavern-window: there, the brisk measure
Of an organ that down in an alley merrily plays,
Two children, all alone and no one by,
Holding their tattered frocks, thro’ an airy maze
Of motion lightly threaded with nimble feet
Dance sedately; face to face they gaze,
Their eyes shining, grave with perfect pleasure.
​
Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)

The Poetry of Earth

'The poetry of earth is never dead' - Keats

There is always room for beauty: memory
  A myriad lovely blossoms may enclose,
But, whatsoe’er hath been, there still must be
  Room for another rose.

Though skylark, throstle, whitethroat, whip-poor-will,
  And nightingale earth’s echoing chantries throng,
When comes another singer, there will be
  Room for another song.

Florence Earle Coates (1850–1927)

The solitary reaper
 
BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
 
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands                          
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides. 
                .               .            
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill                              
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.
​
William Wordsworth  (1770 - 1850)

Unity
 
The primrose has her gentle root
A hundred miles beyond the sod,
Deep buried in the Absolute,
Safe in the inmost will of God.
 
The One Thing  that is everything,
Is very close to grass and trees;
Hers is the song the satyrs sing,
the wild fern clings about her knees.
 
And Psyche’s lamp, and Buddha’s dream,
Those words that shall not fade or pass,
Are but the lilt of a lost stream
That flows under the world’s grass.

Eva Selina Gore-Booth (1870-1926)

See poems for other seasons