The Gloom And The Glory: 6 Poems To Enjoy This Fall
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Whether the weather has shifted yet or not, fall is upon us! With the first official day being Thursday, September 22nd this year, many of us are ready for the rhythm, the weather, the boots, and the flannels. Fall holds a special place in the hearts of many, but with such a beloved season before us, how can one give it the proper ceremonious entry it deserves?
I have found that taking the time to find a few poems and steeping in them as I enter into a new season offers a feeling of transition and anticipation for all that the next few months have to offer, and all that I hope to enjoy.
Poetry can be a friend that accompanies you through the year; a sort of soundtrack that gives melody, rhythm and words to what you´re experiencing in the world around you. In autumn, there are gloomy poems with a tinge of the darkness that comes with shorter daylight hours, comfy poems to sit beside you at the evening fire, misty morning poems that add depth to your early cuppa, and crunchy crisp poems that gloriously flit about you like amber leaves falling on a leisurely stroll.
Having a few of these poems at the ready, already having their words and images in your mind, may be just the thing to help you celebrate these precious seasonal gifts. Who knows? You may even end up quoting a line or two spontaneously like an Austen heroine!
There are so many possible fall poems to pick from, but here are six that have free access on the internet and are enjoyable for even the most novice of poetry readers:
01 | Fog (by Carl Sandberg)
This poem is perfect for easily memorizing, and for sharing with children too.
“The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.”
02 | Fall, leaves, fall (by Emily Brontë)
For those of us who enjoy even the gloomier side of fall.
“Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.”
03 | An Old Woman of the Roads (by Padraic Colum)
An Irish poet reminds us gently to be grateful in this season for the simple things we already have.
“O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped up sods against the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!
To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!
I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!
I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!
Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house nor bush,
And tired I am of bog and road,
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!
And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house - a house of my own
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.”
04 | Autumn (by Emily Dickinson)
Recluse Emily, proving that you don´t have to leave your house to want to embrace the fun sartorial changes the season brings.
“The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry's cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I'll put a trinket on.”
05 | Autumn Fires (by Robert Louis Stevenson)
A sweet little poem that makes me want to venture into the countryside on an afternoon drive.
“In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!
Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.
Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!”
06 | The Village Blacksmith (by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)
This blacksmith seems to embody the fall season: honest, hard working, sorrow and steadiness combined.
“Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.”
