Poetry Made Up About Autumn

By Me.

Oil copper-colored Autumn comes

To dull the beautious year! —

He lifts his brawny hand, and bids,

Its glories disappear :

The flowers all fade, the leaves turn brown,

The birds forget to sing;

Woodchucks retire into their holes,

To snooze it out till spring.

 

Sometimes the days are Sabbath-like,

So quiet and so still;

Sometimes the fragrant winds start up,

And blow it out to kill;

Sometimes the skies are blue and clear,

Sometimes they wear a frown,

So threatening that they seem would fain

To tear the heavens down!

 

A lonely orphan rose is left

'Mid beating storms to bloom,

While sister roses all have gone

Down to an early tomb!

But soon that rose must fade and fall,

And join the loved and the lost;

Its cheeks shall ne'er be kissed by

The cold lips of frost.

 

Where are the birds! — the little birds,

That sang so sweet for me?

Alas! they're flown, I know not where —

Perhaps they're on a spree!

They will return — I know they will —

The violet, too, and rose;

I shall behold them all again,

When they have changed their clo's.

 

Farewell, dear flowers, my sweetest friends!

The autumn now is here;

I bid you all a blest adieu

Until another year :

And you, kind friend — from you I part,

But with a heavy sigh;

'Tis fate compels, — give me your sleeve —

Old Summer's Coat — good bye!

October 9, 1846. Burlington Free Press 20(17): 4. From the N.Y. Sunday Mercury.