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Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
Autumn Days. W. CARLETON.
While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain,
Comes jovial on.
The Seasons: Autumn. J. THOMSON.
From gold to gray
Our mild sweet day
Of Indian summer fades too soon;
But tenderly
Above the sea
Hangs, white and calm, the hunter's moon.
The Eve of Election. J.G. WHITTIER.
The brown leaves rustle down the forest glade,
Where naked branches make a fitful shade,
And the lost blooms of Autumn withered lie.
October. G. ARNOLD.
The dead leaves their rich mosaics
Of olive and gold and brown
Had laid on the rain-wet pavements,
Through all the embowered town.
November. S. LONGFELLOW.
When shrieked
The bleak November winds, and smote the woods,
And the brown fields were herbless, and the shades
That met above the merry rivulet
Were spoiled, I sought, I loved them still; they seemed
Like old companions in adversity.
A Winter Piece. W.C. BRYANT.
Dry leaves upon the wall,
Which flap like rustling wings and seek escape,
A single frosted cluster on the grape
Still hangs—and that is all.
November. S.C. WOOLSEY (Susan Coolidge).
WINTER.
Lastly came Winter, clothed all in frize,
Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;
Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,
And the dull drops that from his purple bill
As from a limbeck did adown distill;
In his right hand a tipped staff he held
With which his feeble steps he stayed still,
For he was faint with cold and weak with eld,
That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld.
Faërie Queene, Bk. VII. E. SPENSER.