Last September I wrote a post about Autumn Poems after looking through a scrapbook full of poems that my Grandma saved from newspapers and magazines. The poems were from about 50 years ago.

Last week was the start of fall or autumn so I decided to share a few more of the poems from the scrapbook.

This first poem does not have the poet listed.

Bringing Autumn In

Grandma’s paring apples,

Sign that’s full of cheer;

Summer’s nearly over,

Autumn’s nearly here.

Cozy evenings coming,

Mornings brisk and cool;

Long vacation ended,

Busy times at school.

.

Grandma’s paring apples.

Some of them she dries,

Some make sauce and puddings,

Some make spicy pies.

Pantry smells delicious,

Pockets bulge out wide;

Children with their baskets

Roam the orchard-side.

.

Grandma’s paring apples,

Nicest time o’year;

firelight and lamplight

Fill the house with cheer.

Odors sweet in cellar,

Rosy fruit in bin;

Most likely this poem is longer since it does not end with a period. Perhaps the rest of the poem included the author. I wonder why my grandma did not paste the complete poem into the scrapbook?

Of course since I was curious I had to see if I could find the ending of the poem. I found the poem in St. Nicholas magazine.

The poem was written by Annie Willis McCullough and here are the final lines.

Grandma, paring apples,

Brings the autumn in!

Autumn Market

Every autumn in the woods,

Falling leaves are burnished bright,

For in Fairy Markets there,

Jack Frost holds a sale, each night.

.

Fairies hurry ’round to buy

Crimson hose, a golden gown,

And, for sturdy working clothes,

Leaves are stained in shades of brown.

.

Then, beneath the big oak tree,

Fairies shop for kitchen ware;

Polished copper frying pans,

Pots and kettles are found there.

.

Autumn leaves the fairies use

In so many ways, you see—

Dresses, rugs, and blankets, too,

Even kettles for their tea!

Frances Gorman Risser

Autumn

The autumn is a gipsy, when the frost is in the air;

A joyous, tattered wanderer, with sumac in her hair.

She passes field and meadowland, and hangs her banners there;

At night her crimson campfire wafts it perfume everywhere.

 

The autumn is a priestess, when the leaves are brown and sere;

She takes her forms of worship from a faded yesteryear.

Her robes of mist float round her as she burns an incense sweet,

And bows before her woodland gods who do not know defeat.

She plucks the flaunting banners down that once she hung so high,

And sets their blazing colors on her altar in the sky.

Hattie Anundsen

I hope you enjoyed these three autumn poems.

I am really looking forward to a colorful autumn, but the color comes late here in California.

Steven