The poetry of Autumn

 

    Emily Bronte wrote a short poem about this time of year.

 

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;

 

Link the night and shor the day;

 

Every leaf speaks bliss to me

 

Fluttering from the autumn tree.

 

I shall smile when wreaths of snow

 

Blossom where the rose should grow;

 

I shall sing when night’s decay

 

Ushers in a drearier day.

 

    Although I admire Emily’s optimism, somehow I don’t think she could have been a gardener. Gardeners, I think, while welcoming the changing seasons are always looking ahead to next year’s roses. That is why, I believe that the author of another poem about autumn sounds as if he may have been a gardener. Politzer wrote:

 

Whirling leaves, golden and brown

 

Twisting and turning

 

Hurrying down

 

Driving wind, gusty and strong

 

Whistling and sighing

 

Rushing along

 

Scudding clouds, grey leaden sky

 

Laughing and playing

 

Galloping by.

 

Roaming birds, gathered for flight

 

Chirping and preening

 

Seeking sun light.

 

Drooping rose, scattered to earth,

 

Dying and fading

 

Waiting new birth.

 

As we walk around our gardens hoping to find that last rose of summer, we are already dreaming of roses yet to come.