An Autumn Treasure-Trove.

'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame
Hangs on the maple bough;
And June is the faded flower of a name;
The thin hedge hides not a singer now.
Yet rich am I; for my treasures be
The gold afloat in my willow-tree.

Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew,
Girded with blue and pearl,
Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too;
As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl,
She sings while her soul brooding tearfully
Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.

All day pure white and saffron at eve,
Clouds awaiting the sun
Turn them at length to ghosts that leave
When the moon's white path is slowly run
Till the morning comes, and with joy for me
O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.

The lilacs that blew on the breast of May
Are an old and lost delight;
And the rose lies ruined in his careless way
As the wind turns the poplars underwhite,
Yet richer am I for the autumn; see
All my misty gold in the willow-tree.

Eugene Field

Eugene Field was an American writer, best known for his children's poetry and humorous essays. Born in St. Louis, Missouri, he was known as the 'Poet of Childhood' due to his well-loved poems for children. After his mother's death in 1856, he was raised by a cousin in Amherst, Massachusetts. Field studied at several universities but never graduated. His most famous poems include 'Wynken, Blynken, and Nod' and 'The Duel.' Field worked as a journalist and editor in various cities, including Chicago, where he spent the last years of his life.

Eugene Field

Mediaeval Eventide Song

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

Uhland's White Stag.

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

The Blue And The Gray.

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

Suppose

Eugene Field, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Autumn's Gold

Along the tops of all the yellow trees,
    The golden-yellow trees, the sunshine lies;
    And where the leaves are gone, long rays surprise
Lone depths of thicket with their brightnesses;
And through the woods, all waste of many a breeze,
    Cometh more joy of light for Poet's eyes--
    Green fields lying yellow underneath the skies,
And shining houses and blue distances.

By the roadside, like rocks of golden ore
    That make the western river-beds so bright,
    The briar and the furze are all alight!
Perhaps the year will be so fair no more,
    But now the fallen, falling leaves are gay,
    And autumn old has shone into a Day!

George MacDonald

Our Canadian Woods In Early Autumn.

I have passed the day 'mid the forest gay,
    In its gorgeous autumn dyes,
Its tints as bright and as fair to the sight
    As the hues of our sunset skies;
And the sun's glad rays veiled by golden haze,
    Streamed down 'neath its arches grand,
And with magic power made scene and hour
    Like a dream of Faerie Land.

The emerald sheen of the maple green
    Is turned to deep, rich red;
And the boughs entwine with the crimson vine
    That is climbing overhead;
While, like golden sheaves, the saffron leaves
    Of the sycamore strew the ground,
'Neath birches old, clad in shimmering gold,
    Or the ash with red berries crowned.

Stately and tall, o'er its sisters all,
    Stands the poplar, proud and lone,
Every silvery leaf in restless...

Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Autumn.

Here's the purple aster,
    And the golden-rod,
And the blue fringed gentian,
    By the meadow sod.

And the scarlet cardinal
    Grows beside the brook,
And the yellow sunflower
    In some sheltered nook.

Maple boughs are covered
    With their foliage red,
And the withered elm leaves
    On the ground lie dead.

And within the orchard,
    Heavy-laden trees
Shower down the apples,
    With each passing breeze.

So by these we know thee,
    Lovely autumn time,
With thy deep blue heavens,
    And thy snowy rime.

And we gladly greet thee,
    With thy colors gay,
Though thou tell'st us summer
    Hence hath fled away.

H. P. Nichols

Autumn

With what a glory comes and goes the year!
The buds of spring, those beautiful harbingers
Of sunny skies and cloudless times, enjoy
Life's newness, and earth's garniture spread out;
And when the silver habit of the clouds
Comes down upon the autumn sun, and with
A sober gladness the old year takes up
His bright inheritance of golden fruits,
A pomp and pageant fill the splendid scene.

    There is a beautiful spirit breathing now
Its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
And, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
Pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
Kisses the blushing lea...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Autumn

The year grows still again, the surging wake
Of full-sailed summer folds its furrows up,
As after passing of an argosy
Old Silence settles back upon the sea,
And ocean grows as placid as a cup.
Spring, the young morn, and Summer, the strong noon,
Have dreamed and done and died for Autumn's sake:
Autumn that finds not for a loss so dear
Solace in stack and garner hers too soon -
Autumn, the faithful widow of the year.

Autumn, a poet once so full of song,
Wise in all rhymes of blossom and of bud,
Hath lost the early magic of his tongue,
And hath no passion in his failing blood.
Hear ye no sound of sobbing in the air?
'Tis his. Low bending in a secret lane,
Late blooms of second childhood in his hair,
He tries old magic, like a dotard mage;
Tries ...

Richard Le Gallienne

Buried Treasure

When the musicians hide away their faces,
And all the petals of the rose are shed,
And snow is drifting through the happy places,
And the last cricket's heart is cold and dead;
O Joy, where shall we find thee?
    O Love, where shall we seek?
For summer is behind thee,
    And cold is winter's cheek.

Where shall I find me violets in December?
O tell me where the wood-thrush sings to-day!
Ah! heart, our summer-love dost thou remember
Where it lies hidden safe and warm away?
When woods once more are ringing
    With sweet birds on the bough,
And brooks once more are singing,
    Will it be there - thinkst thou?

When Autumn came through bannered woodlands sighing,
We found a place of moonlight and of tears,
And there, with yellow leaves for ...

Richard Le Gallienne