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Best Famous Autumn Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Autumn poems. This is a select list of the best famous Autumn poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Autumn poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of autumn poems.

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Alfred Lord Tennyson | |

Tears Idle Tears

  Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To dying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more!


by Emily Dickinson | |

It was not death for I stood up

It was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.
It was not frost, for on my flesh I felt siroccos crawl,-- Nor fire, for just my marble feet Could keep a chancel cool.
And yet it tasted like them all; The figures I have seen Set orderly, for burial, Reminded me of mine, As if my life were shaven And fitted to a frame, And could not breathe without a key; And 't was like midnight, some, When everything that ticked has stopped, And space stares, all around, Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns, Repeal the beating ground.
But most like chaos,--stopless, cool,-- Without a chance or spar,-- Or even a report of land To justify despair.


by Wang Wei | |

A MESSAGE FROM MY LODGE AT WANGCHUAN TO PEI DI

The mountains are cold and blue now 
And the autumn waters have run all day.
By my thatch door, leaning on my staff, I listen to cicadas in the evening wind.
Sunset lingers at the ferry, Supper-smoke floats up from the houses.
.
.
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Oh, when shall I pledge the great Hermit again And sing a wild poem at Five Willows?


by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh

enter no(silence is the blood whose flesh
is singing)silence:but unsinging.
In spectral such hugest how hush,one dead leaf stirring makes a crash -far away(as far as alive)lies april;and i breathe-move-and-seem some perpetually roaming whylessness- autumn has gone:will winter never come? o come,terrible anonymity;enfold phantom me with the murdering minus of cold -open this ghost with millionary knives of wind- scatter his nothing all over what angry skies and gently (very whiteness:absolute peace, never imaginable mystery) descend


by Siegfried Sassoon | |

October

ACROSS the land a faint blue veil of mist
Seems hung; the woods wear yet arrayment sober
Till frost shall make them flame; silent and whist
The drooping cherry orchards of October
Like mournful pennons hang their shrivelling leaves 5
Russet and orange: all things now decay;
Long since ye garnered in your autumn sheaves 
And sad the robins pipe at set of day.
Now do ye dream of Spring when greening shaws Confer with the shrewd breezes and of slopes 10 Flower-kirtled and of April virgin guest; Days that ye love despite their windy flaws Since they are woven with all joys and hopes Whereof ye nevermore shall be possessed.


by Philip Larkin | |

Mother Summer I

 My mother, who hates thunder storms, 
Holds up each summer day and shakes 
It out suspiciously, lest swarms 
Of grape-dark clouds are lurking there; 
But when the August weather breaks 
And rains begin, and brittle frost 
Sharpens the bird-abandoned air, 
Her worried summer look is lost, 

And I her son, though summer-born 
And summer-loving, none the less 
Am easier when the leaves are gone 
Too often summer days appear 
Emblems of perfect happiness 
I can't confront: I must await 
A time less bold, less rich, less clear: 
An autumn more appropriate.


by Philip Larkin | |

Triple Time

 This empty street, this sky to blandness scoured,
This air, a little indistinct with autumn
Like a reflection, constitute the present --
A time traditionally soured,
A time unrecommended by event.
But equally they make up something else: This is the furthest future childhood saw Between long houses, under travelling skies, Heard in contending bells -- An air lambent with adult enterprise, And on another day will be the past, A valley cropped by fat neglected chances That we insensately forbore to fleece.
On this we blame our last Threadbare perspectives, seasonal decrease.


by Conrad Aiken | |

All Lovely Things

 All lovely things will have an ending, 
All lovely things will fade and die, 
And youth, that's now so bravely spending, 
Will beg a penny by and by.
Fine ladies soon are all forgotten, And goldenrod is dust when dead, The sweetest flesh and flowers are rotten And cobwebs tent the brightest head.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, return!— But time goes on, and will, unheeding, Though hands will reach, and eyes will yearn, And the wild days set true hearts bleeding.
Come back, true love! Sweet youth, remain!— But goldenrod and daisies wither, And over them blows autumn rain, They pass, they pass, and know not whither.


by Wang Wei | |

Huazi Ridge

 Fly bird go no limit 
Join mountain again autumn colour 
Up down Huazi Ridge 
Melancholy feeling what extreme 


A bird in flight goes on without limit, 
Joined hills are autumn's colours again.
From top to bottom of Huazi Ridge, Melancholy feeling has no end.


by Wang Wei | |

A Song of an Autumn Night.

 Under the crescent moon a light autumn dew 
Has chilled the robe she will not change -- 
And she touches a silver lute all night, 
Afraid to go back to her empty room.


by Wang Wei | |

Bound Home to Mount Song

 The limpid river, past its bushes 
Running slowly as my chariot, 
Becomes a fellow voyager 
Returning home with the evening birds.
A ruined city-wall overtops an old ferry, Autumn sunset floods the peaks.
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.
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Far away, beside Mount Song, I shall close my door and be at peace.


by Wang Wei | |

Lily Magnolia Enclosure

 Autumn hill gather surplus shine 
Fly bird chase before companion.
Colour green moment bright, Sunset mist no fixed place.
The autumn hill gathers remaining light, A flying bird chases its companion before.
The green colour is momentarily bright, Sunset mist has no fixed place.


by G K Chesterton | |

Gold Leaves

 Lo! I am come to autumn, 
When all the leaves are gold; 
Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out 
The year and I are old.
In youth I sought the prince of men, Captain in cosmic wars, Our Titan, even the weeds would show Defiant, to the stars.
But now a great thing in the street Seems any human nod, Where shift in strange democracy The million masks of God.
In youth I sought the golden flower Hidden in wood or wold, But I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold.


by G K Chesterton | |

The Convert

 After one moment when I bowed my head 
And the whole world turned over and came upright, 
And I came out where the old road shone white, 
I walked the ways and heard what all men said, 
Forests of tongues, like autumn leaves unshed, 
Being not unlovable but strange and light; 
Old riddles and new creeds, not in despite 
But softly, as men smile about the dead.
The sages have a hundred maps to give That trace their crawling cosmos like a tree, They rattle reason out through many a sieve That stores the sand and lets the gold go free: And all these things are less than dust to me Because my name is Lazarus and I live.


by Walter Savage Landor | |

Autumn

 MILD is the parting year, and sweet 
 The odour of the falling spray; 
Life passes on more rudely fleet, 
 And balmless is its closing day.
I wait its close, I court its gloom, But mourn that never must there fall Or on my breast or on my tomb The tear that would have soothed it all.


by William Henry Davies | |

Rich Days

 Welcome to you rich Autumn days, 
Ere comes the cold, leaf-picking wind; 
When golden stocks are seen in fields, 
All standing arm-in-arm entwined; 
And gallons of sweet cider seen 
On trees in apples red and green.
With mellow pears that cheat our teeth, Which melt that tongues may suck them in; With blue-black damsons, yellow plums, Now sweet and soft from stone to skin; And woodnuts rich, to make us go Into the loneliest lanes we know.


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

A Calendar of Sonnets: November

 This is the treacherous month when autumn days 
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts Her head and blooms again.
The soft, warm haze Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways, And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts, The violet returns.
Snow noiseless sifts Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays Willidly shine upon and slowly melt, Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain; Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt? What profit from the violet's day of pain?


by Helen Hunt Jackson | |

Unto one who lies at rest

 Unto one who lies at rest 
'Neath the sunset, in the West, 
Clover-blossoms on her breast.
Lover of each gracious thing Which makes glad the summer-tide, From the daisies clustering And the violets purple-eyed, To those shy and hidden blooms Which in forest coverts stay, Sending wandering perfumes Out as guide to show the way, All she knew, to all was kind; None so humble or so small That she did not seek and find Silent friendship from them all.
Moss-cups, tiarella leaves, Dappld like the adder's skin, Fungus huts with ivory eaves Which the fairies harbor in, Regiments of fronded ferns, Golden-rod and asters frail, Every flaming leaf that burns Red against the autumn pale, Every pink-cupped wayside rose,-- All to her were dear and known; But above them all she chose Clover-blossoms for her own.
So they laid her to her rest In the sun-warmed, bounteous West, Clover-blossoms on her breast.


by William Lisle Bowles | |

To a Friend

 Go, then, and join the murmuring city's throng! 
Me thou dost leave to solitude and tears; 
To busy phantasies, and boding fears, 
Lest ill betide thee; but 't will not be long 
Ere the hard season shall be past; till then 
Live happy; sometimes the forsaken shade 
Remembering, and these trees now left to fade; 
Nor, mid the busy scenes and hum of men, 
Wilt thou my cares forget: in heaviness 
To me the hours shall roll, weary and slow, 
Till mournful autumn past, and all the snow 
Of winter pale, the glad hour I shall bless 
That shall restore thee from the crowd again, 
To the green hamlet on the peaceful plain.


by Ella Wheeler Wilcox | |

Searching

 These quiet Autumn days, 
My soul, like Noah's dove, on airy wings
Goes out and searches for the hidden things
Beyond the hills of haze.
With mournful, pleading cries, Above the waters of the voiceless sea That laps the shore of broad Eternity, Day after day, it flies, Searching, but all in vain, For some stray leaf that it may light upon, And read the future, as the days agone - Its pleasures, and its pain.
Listening patiently For some voice speaking from the mighty deep, Revealing all the things that it doth keep In secret there for me.
Come back and wait, my soul! Day after day thy search has been in vain.
Voiceles and silent o'er the future's plain Its mystic waters roll.
God, seeing, knoweth best, And in His time the waters shall subside, And thou shalt know what lies beneath the tide, Then wait, my soul, and rest.


by Friedrich von Schiller | |

Different Destinies

 Millions busily toil, that the human race may continue;
But by only a few is propagated our kind.
Thousands of seeds by the autumn are scattered, yet fruit is engendered Only by few, for the most back to the element go.
But if one only can blossom, that one is able to scatter Even a bright living world, filled with creations eterne.


by Henry Van Dyke | |

Robert Browning

 How blind the toil that burrows like the mole, 
In winding graveyard pathways underground,
For Browning's lineage! What if men have found
Poor footmen or rich merchants on the roll
Of his forbears? Did they beget his soul? 
Nay, for he came of ancestry renowned 
Through all the world, -- the poets laurel-crowned
With wreaths from which the autumn takes no toll.
The blazons on his coat-of-arms are these: The flaming sign of Shelley's heart on fire, The golden globe of Shakespeare's human stage, The staff and scrip of Chaucer's pilgrimage, The rose of Dante's deep, divine desire, The tragic mask of wise Euripides.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Beautiful Old Age

 It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.
The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins in their old age.
Soothing, old people should be, like apples when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft stillness and satisfaction of autumn.
And a girl should say: It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! - And a young man should think: By Jove my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

At the Window

 The pine-trees bend to listen to the autumn wind as it mutters 
Something which sets the black poplars ashake with hysterical laughter; 
While slowly the house of day is closing its eastern shutters.
Further down the valley the clustered tombstones recede, Winding about their dimness the mist’s grey cerements, after The street lamps in the darkness have suddenly started to bleed.
The leaves fly over the window and utter a word as they pass To the face that leans from the darkness, intent, with two dark-filled eyes That watch for ever earnestly from behind the window glass.


by David Herbert Lawrence | |

Dolor of Autumn

 The acrid scents of autumn, 
Reminiscent of slinking beasts, make me fear 
Everything, tear-trembling stars of autumn 
And the snore of the night in my ear.
For suddenly, flush-fallen, All my life, in a rush Of shedding away, has left me Naked, exposed on the bush.
I, on the bush of the globe, Like a newly-naked berry, shrink Disclosed: but I also am prowling As well in the scents that slink Abroad: I in this naked berry Of flesh that stands dismayed on the bush; And I in the stealthy, brindled odours Prowling about the lush And acrid night of autumn; My soul, along with the rout, Rank and treacherous, prowling, Disseminated out.
For the night, with a great breath intaken, Has taken my spirit outside Me, till I reel with disseminated consciousness, Like a man who has died.
At the same time I stand exposed Here on the bush of the globe, A newly-naked berry of flesh For the stars to probe.