Our latest autumn poetry selection
Our poetry is chosen from the work of both well-known and new poets, and assessed by a practising psychotherapist for suitability for patients waiting to see their doctor. We hope you enjoy our latest selection.
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
Winged Words
As darting swallows skim across a pool,
Whose tranquil depths reflect a tranquil sky,
So, o’er the depths of silence, dark and cool,
Our winged words dart playfully,
And seldom break
The quiet surface of the lake,
As they flit by.
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861-1907)
As darting swallows skim across a pool,
Whose tranquil depths reflect a tranquil sky,
So, o’er the depths of silence, dark and cool,
Our winged words dart playfully,
And seldom break
The quiet surface of the lake,
As they flit by.
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge (1861-1907)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
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)
Redwings
I first saw them last February:
They woke me from
daydreams.
As I turned round to see
them,
I felt the tilt of their spirit
in their red underwings
and white eyeliners.
I heard their sound of
whispered kisses.
They lifted the meadows
as their gathered soft chatter
kept their intermittent hops
from getting lost.
This year, the kitchen
window
joined us:
as they scoured the tree,
I stood at the sink,
dishes in hand, rapt.
Martha Pollard (1968 - )
I first saw them last February:
They woke me from
daydreams.
As I turned round to see
them,
I felt the tilt of their spirit
in their red underwings
and white eyeliners.
I heard their sound of
whispered kisses.
They lifted the meadows
as their gathered soft chatter
kept their intermittent hops
from getting lost.
This year, the kitchen
window
joined us:
as they scoured the tree,
I stood at the sink,
dishes in hand, rapt.
Martha Pollard (1968 - )
Editor: Isobel Montgomery Campbell
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2020. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
