O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

To Autumn, William Blake

When the frosty kiss of Autumn in the dark
Makes its mark
On the flowers, and the misty morning grieves
Over fallen leaves;

Then my olden garden, where the golden soil
Through the toil
Of a hundred years is mellow, rich, and deep,
Whispers in its sleep.

Autumn in the GardenHenry Van Dyke

Foliage, stairway

As Summer into Autumn slips
And yet we sooner say
“The Summer” than “the Autumn,” lest
We turn the sun away,


Floating foliage

Floating foliage

And almost count it an Affront
The presence to concede
Of one however lovely, not
The one that we have loved —


the haunted wood

the haunted wood

So we evade the charge of Years
On one attempting shy
The Circumvention of the Shaft
Of Life’s Declivity.

As Summer into Autumn slips Emily Dickinson


the golden tree

the golden tree

Che dolcezza infantile

nella mattinata tranquilla!

C’è il sole tra le foglie gialle

e i ragni tendono fra i rami

le loro strade di seta…

Mattino d’autunno (F.G. Lorca)




Ma dove ve ne andate,

povere foglie gialle,

come tante farfalle


Venite da lontano

o da vicino?

Da un bosco

o da un giardino?

E non sentite la malinconia

del vento stesso

che vi porta via?

Foglie gialleTrilussa

L’autunno c’è già
cadono foglie lievi
tra i miei occhi.
Autunno, Haiku

Autunno mansueto, io mi posseggo
e piego alle tue acque a bermi il cielo,
fuga soave d’alberi e d’abissi.

Aspra pena del nascere
mi trova a te congiunto;
e in te mi schianto e risano:
povera cosa caduta
che la terra raccoglie.
Autunno, Salvatore Quasimodo

Foliage, Oregon

Foliage, Oregon

Go, sit upon the lofty hill,
And turn your eyes around,
Where waving woods
and waters wild
Do hymn an autumn sound.
The summer sun is faint on them

The summer flowers depart —
Sit still — as all transform’d to
Except your musing heart. […]

The Autumn, Elizabeth Barrett Browning