By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorpes, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.
Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever. Read more about The Brook
I had forgotten or perhaps had never noticed that this is an April poem. I've always liked it, though.
anyone lived in a pretty how town
(with up so floating many bells down)
spring summer autumn winter
he sang his didn't he danced his did.
Women and men (both little and small)
cared for anyone not at all
they sowed their isn't they reaped their same
sun moon stars rain Read more about Earth by April
The first time I walked
With a girl, I was twelve,
Cold, and weighted down
With two oranges in my jacket.
Read more about December Story>December.
Frost cracking
Beneath my steps, my breath
Before me, then gone,
As I walked toward
Her house, the one whose
Porch light burned yellow
Night and day, in any weather.
October Weather
by Mabel Douglas Essay
(October weather is unusually warm in southern Wisconsin this year. This is more a wish than an observation.)
Read more about October Weather>There's a certain eerie sadness
Tempered with exultant gladness
In October weather.Vanished is June's fertile sweetness,
July's mellow rare completeness;
August fleeing with September
Leaves a beauty earth remembers
In October weather.
I wish I could share so many of the lovely poems of autumn, the poems that tell of ripening apples and smiling sunflowers, brisk and crispy air, the laughter of children going to school, the ending of glorious summer and the beginning of a fruitful and colorful fall. But this year I just can't. From one corner of the country to another communities are on fire, cities are under water, hospitals have no room for more sick, people are dying from heat prostration and states are bent on punishing those who have learned to breath free. Read more about The Dying Garden