Leaf-Fall in October / John Freeman

Leaf-Fall in October

O falling leaves,
O'er you compassionate tender-fingered eves
Draw a white mist for shroud, O falling leaves!

The poignant thrush
Singeth your fall, while careless footsteps crush
And pass unheeding you, wind-stricken leaves;

And from the sky
Sun, moon, and stars look on indifferently,
As you had never lived, O dying leaves!

A teasing wind
Rattles among the branches hourly-thinned,
Driving a fugitive army of you, wild leaves;

And no more now
Shall you like jewels hang on every bough
In th' bright dew-nourished morn, O pallid leaves

But the wise Earth,
In whom all present death is promised birth,
Takes you — and us who fall like you, O leaves!

~~
John Freeman (1880-1929)
from Twenty Poems, 1909

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

John Freeman biography

John Fowler, Falling Leaves, 2012. CC BY 2.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Coats / JD Shirk

Coats

I have worn so many coats
Always changing through the years
Some fit very well and warm
Giving comfort for a time
Other ones, threadbare and cold

Woven with such brittle fibers
From the mills of want and angst,
Pockets torn
With holes and tattered
Where fortunes and good will
Must have surely fallen through

I outgrew some, along the way,
Left them lying there
Pockets full of naive trust,
For those with childlike faith
Who wore each one with beauty,
In traditions of their creeds

I wore a coat of innocence,
In a place so long ago,
Where angels held their guard
Where ice cold rain fell hard
Into gentle summer nights

I wear a coat these days
A perfect fit and trim
A patchwork stitched
Of faded cloth, stained and ripped
From passing years
The pockets filled
With golden Hope, sweet
Memories and tears

~~
JD Shirk, 2023

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

JD Shirk biography

Roman Harald, Redhead, 2014. CC BY-NC-ND, Flickr Commons

October / Tom MacInnes

October

When I was a little fellow, long ago,
    The season of all seasons seemed to me
    The Summer's afterglow and fantasy —
The red October of Ontario:
To ramble unrestrain'd where maples grow
    Thick-set with butternut and hickory,
    And be the while companion'd airily
By elfin things a child alone may know!

And how with mugs of cider, sweet and mellow,
    And block and hammer for the gather'd store
    Of toothsome nuts, we'd lie around before
The fire at nights, and hear the old folks tell o'
    Red Indians and bears, and the Yankee war —
Long ago, when I was a little fellow!

~~
Tom MacInnes (1867-1951)
from In Amber Lands, 1910

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada, the United States, and the European Union]

Tom MacInnes biography

Robert Berdan, Oxtongue River, Ontario, Canada, in autumn (detail).

CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.

Suspending Winter Willingly in Disbelief / Cathleen Harvea Guthrie

 

Suspending Winter Willingly in Disbelief

Spring whistled a happy tune ... summer sang.
    Autumn's song being sung and winter's song
    Yet to come ... a cold hard song ... far too long, 
Winter's known song ... a frosty frigid ... pang!

The end of summer comes in disbelief:
    Autumnal apples fall far from the trees;
    Sweet honey stolen from the honeybees;
Luscious fruit with sweetness lends some relief.

The gifts of spring and summer ... love bestowed.
    Gratitude for the fruits of the season –
    Gratitude for plentiful pleasing reason.
From the summer season much bounty flowed.

Seen on display, the farmer's market showed
    The fresh fruits of love's organic labor.
    A just picked garden carrot ... to savor!
To buy artisanal produce much is owed.

Spring whistled a happy tune ... summer sang.
    Autumn's song being sung and winter's song
    Yet to come ... a cold hard song ... far too long,
Winter's known song ... a frosty frigid ... pang!

Cold hard fact:
    As fleeting pleasures fade in disbelief ...
    Suspension of disbelief assuages grief.

~~
Cathleen Harvea Guthrie, 2025 

from #autumnalpoemsbycathleenharveaguthrie 

[All rights reserved - used with permission]

Jean-François Millet (1814–1875), Apple Gatherers, ca, 1859. Wikimedia Commons.

Autumn / Richard Chenevix Trench

Autumn

Thine, autumn, is unwelcome lore,
To tell the world its pomp is o'er.

To whisper in the rose's ear
That all her beauty is no more;

And bid her own the faith how vain,
Which spring to her so lately swore.

 
A queen deposed, she quits her state;
The nightingales her fall deplore.

The hundred-voiced bird may woo
The thousand-leaved flower no more.

The jasmine sinks its head in shame,
The sharp east wind its tresses tore,

And robbed in passing cruelly
The tulip of the crown it wore.

The lily's sword is broken now,
That was so bright and keen before;

And not a blast can blow, but strews
With leaf of gold the earth's dank floor,

The piping winds sing Nature's dirge,
As through the forest bleak they roar,

Whose leafy screen, like locks of eld,
Each day shows scantier than before.

Thou fadest as a flower, O man!
Of food for musing here is store.

O man, thou fallest as a leaf!
Pace thoughtfully earth's leafstrewn floor;

Welcome the sadness of the time,
And lay to heart this natural lore.

~~

Richard Chenevix Trench (1807-1866)
from Poems, 1865

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Richard Chenevix Trench autobiography

"The Seasons" by Trench, read by Sonia for LibriVox. Courtesy Rhodoclassics.

("Autumn" begins at 4:15.)

Memory of My Father / Patrick Kavanagh

Memory of My Father

Every old man I see
Reminds me of my father
When he had fallen in love with death
One time when sheaves were gathered.

That man I saw in Gardner Street
Stumbled on the kerb was one,
He stared at me half-eyed,
I might have been his son.

And I remember the musician
Faltering over his fiddle
In Bayswater, London,
He too set me the riddle.

Every old man I see
In October-coloured weather
Seems to say to me:
"I was once your father."

~~
Patrick Kavanagh (1904-1967)
from A Soul for Sale, 1947

[Poem is in the public domain in Canada]

Patrick Kavanagh biography

"Memory of My Father" read by Declan O'Connor.

Courtesy Adrian Brinkerhoff Poetry Foundation.

The Cricket to October / Anne Whitney

The Cricket to October

The long, pure light, that brings
    To earth her perfect crown of bliss,
Wanes slow, — the thoughtful drooping of the grain,
And the faint breath of the earth-loving things
        Say this.

Oft when the dews at night
    Clasp the cool shadows, all in vain,
I look along the meadows, level, dark,
To see the firefly lift her tender light
        Again.

From the thick-woven shade,
    Where, on the red-cupped moss, to-day,
A crimson ray alit, the bluebird sends
One melancholy note up the brown glade,
        This way.

Last night, I saw an eft
    Crawl to the worm's forsaken bier,
To die there, as I think, — beetle nor bee,
Nor the ephemera's ethereal weft
        Sport here.

Yet great has been life's zest.
    Almost how the grass grows, I know,
And the ant sleeps; the busy summer long,
I have kept the secret of the ground-bird's nest
        Below.

But sweeter my employ
    In some still hours. I seem to live
Too near the beating of earth's mighty heart,
Not to have learned in part how she can joy
        And grieve!

'Twas on a night last June,
    Into the clear, bold sky,
The little stars stole each with separate thrill,
And the mossed fir-top woke its mystic rune
        Close by.

Upon yon westering slope,
    Two glorious human shapes there stood,
Rosy with twilight, listening to my song:
I knew I sang to them of love and hope,
        Life's good.

The little stars' soft rays
    Again thrill through their realm of peace;
One shadow haunts the slope; — a song I sing
To match the broken music of her days,
        Then cease.

~~

Anne Whitney (1821-1915)

from Poems, 1859

[Poem is in the public domain worldwide]

Anne Whitney biography

Vis M, Bush cricket, Kerala, India, 2021. CC BY-SA 4.0, Wikimedia Commons.