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.
A Wish
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Samuel Rogers (1763-1855)
Mine be a cot beside the hill;
A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook, that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.
The swallow oft beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch
And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew,
And Lucy at her wheel shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze
And point with taper spire to Heaven.
Samuel Rogers (1763-1855)
Written October, 1825
Within my little garden is a flower,
A tuft of flowers, most like a sheaf of corn,
The lilac blossomed daisy that is born
At Michelmas, wrought by the gentle power
Of this sweet Autumn into one bright shower
Of bloomy beauty; Spring hath nought more fair,
Four sister butterflies inhabit there,
Gay gentle creatures! Round that odorous bower
They weave their dance of joy the livelong day,
Seeming to bless the sunshine; and at night
Fold their enamelled wings as if to pray.
Home-loving pretty ones! would I might
For richer gifts as cheerful tribute pay,
So meet the rising dawn, so hail the parting ray!
Mary Russell Mitford (1787-1855)
Within my little garden is a flower,
A tuft of flowers, most like a sheaf of corn,
The lilac blossomed daisy that is born
At Michelmas, wrought by the gentle power
Of this sweet Autumn into one bright shower
Of bloomy beauty; Spring hath nought more fair,
Four sister butterflies inhabit there,
Gay gentle creatures! Round that odorous bower
They weave their dance of joy the livelong day,
Seeming to bless the sunshine; and at night
Fold their enamelled wings as if to pray.
Home-loving pretty ones! would I might
For richer gifts as cheerful tribute pay,
So meet the rising dawn, so hail the parting ray!
Mary Russell Mitford (1787-1855)
From An Autumn Evening
Dinner and day together go,
As round the table still we dwell,
Watching the sun descending slow,
Our faces shine with day’s farewell.
This is the moment of all time
When stillness reigneth over all:
When life calms down, the highest lime
Moves not, nor any leaf dares fall.
Shall we sit still in low-voiced talk
Anticipating lamp and book,
Or once more take a sauntering walk
Hill-ward to catch the sun’s last look?
The lambs and sheep have parted long,
No anxious bleat nor moor-hen’s call
Is heard, nor robin’s autumn song,
Absolute stillness reign’s o’er all.
William Bell Scott (1811-1890)
Dinner and day together go,
As round the table still we dwell,
Watching the sun descending slow,
Our faces shine with day’s farewell.
This is the moment of all time
When stillness reigneth over all:
When life calms down, the highest lime
Moves not, nor any leaf dares fall.
Shall we sit still in low-voiced talk
Anticipating lamp and book,
Or once more take a sauntering walk
Hill-ward to catch the sun’s last look?
The lambs and sheep have parted long,
No anxious bleat nor moor-hen’s call
Is heard, nor robin’s autumn song,
Absolute stillness reign’s o’er all.
William Bell Scott (1811-1890)
Written On a Bridge
When soft September brings again
To yonder gorse its golden glow,
And Snowdon sends its autumn rain
To bid thy current livelier flow;
Amid that ashen foliage light
When scarlet beads are glistering bright,
While alder boughs unchanged are seen
In summer livery of green;
When clouds before the cooler breeze
Are flying, white and large; with these
Returning, so may I return,
And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern.
Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)
When soft September brings again
To yonder gorse its golden glow,
And Snowdon sends its autumn rain
To bid thy current livelier flow;
Amid that ashen foliage light
When scarlet beads are glistering bright,
While alder boughs unchanged are seen
In summer livery of green;
When clouds before the cooler breeze
Are flying, white and large; with these
Returning, so may I return,
And find thee changeless, Pont-y-wern.
Arthur Hugh Clough (1819-1861)
From The Shorter Poems Book IV
XXIII
The storm is over, the land hushes to rest:
The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone,
Is fallen back in the west
To couch with the sinking sun.
The last clouds fare
With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly
In melting drifts of the sky.
Already the birds in the air
Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt,
And one by one,
Proclaiming aloud their care,
Renew their peaceful chant.
Torn and shattered trees their branches again reset,
They trim afresh the fair
Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm,
And awhile will be handsome yet.
Robert Seymour Bridges (1844-1930)
XXIII
The storm is over, the land hushes to rest:
The tyrannous wind, its strength fordone,
Is fallen back in the west
To couch with the sinking sun.
The last clouds fare
With fainting speed, and their thin streamers fly
In melting drifts of the sky.
Already the birds in the air
Appear again; the rooks return to their haunt,
And one by one,
Proclaiming aloud their care,
Renew their peaceful chant.
Torn and shattered trees their branches again reset,
They trim afresh the fair
Few green and golden leaves withheld from the storm,
And awhile will be handsome yet.
Robert Seymour Bridges (1844-1930)
By the North Sea
Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
We walked where tide and shingle meet,
The long waves rolled from far away
To purr in ripples at our feet.
And as we walked it seemed to me
That three old friends had met that day,
The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
And love, which is as old as they.
Out seaward hung the brooding mist,
We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
And marked the great Sun alchemist
Turn all its leaden edge to gold.
Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
The grey below, the gold above,
For so the greyest life may shine
All golden in the light of love.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)
Her cheek was wet with North Sea spray,
We walked where tide and shingle meet,
The long waves rolled from far away
To purr in ripples at our feet.
And as we walked it seemed to me
That three old friends had met that day,
The old, old sky, the old, old sea,
And love, which is as old as they.
Out seaward hung the brooding mist,
We saw it rolling, fold on fold,
And marked the great Sun alchemist
Turn all its leaden edge to gold.
Look well, look well, oh lady mine,
The grey below, the gold above,
For so the greyest life may shine
All golden in the light of love.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)
All Among The Barley
It seems so short a time,
Since dull December’s sun
Set o’er these hedges white with rime,
And furrows purple-dun --
Since empty fields were dark and drear
Beneath the waning of the year.
Green corn, how fast you grew!
Spring sun, how bright you shone!
Love-startled heart, how soon you knew
What secret was your own!
Soft winds, how sweet your serenades
Rang through the ripening barley-blades!
O what a golden glow
Fills all these fields to-night,
The while with eager steps I go
In yellow western light!
Here where the barley lies in swath
On either side the stubble-path.
Along the seaward slope
I take the olden way;
A little tender newborn hope
Sprang in my heart to-day;
Who knows? to-morrow I may bring
New carols to my harvesting.
Alice Elizabeth Gillington (1863-1934)
It seems so short a time,
Since dull December’s sun
Set o’er these hedges white with rime,
And furrows purple-dun --
Since empty fields were dark and drear
Beneath the waning of the year.
Green corn, how fast you grew!
Spring sun, how bright you shone!
Love-startled heart, how soon you knew
What secret was your own!
Soft winds, how sweet your serenades
Rang through the ripening barley-blades!
O what a golden glow
Fills all these fields to-night,
The while with eager steps I go
In yellow western light!
Here where the barley lies in swath
On either side the stubble-path.
Along the seaward slope
I take the olden way;
A little tender newborn hope
Sprang in my heart to-day;
Who knows? to-morrow I may bring
New carols to my harvesting.
Alice Elizabeth Gillington (1863-1934)
Beautiful marks
Look at the marks, says Hockney.
Slowly, that’s all.
Soft marks, dots, lines watched patiently
are beautiful.
What is this life? Says Hockney.
Mostly food and love
and being there and looking carefully.
Look. There. Don’t move.
Enjoy what you like, says Hockney
Art should be fun.
Connect with Nature night and day.
Keep moving on.
Make your own marks, says Hockney.
Let people in
with dogs, reflections, leaves, a tree;
everything is kin.
Ian Whybrow (1942- )
Look at the marks, says Hockney.
Slowly, that’s all.
Soft marks, dots, lines watched patiently
are beautiful.
What is this life? Says Hockney.
Mostly food and love
and being there and looking carefully.
Look. There. Don’t move.
Enjoy what you like, says Hockney
Art should be fun.
Connect with Nature night and day.
Keep moving on.
Make your own marks, says Hockney.
Let people in
with dogs, reflections, leaves, a tree;
everything is kin.
Ian Whybrow (1942- )
Editor: Helen Lee
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
Copyright title and collection Poems in the Waiting Room 2025. Copyright of recent poems retained by the authors.
