An Autumn Rain-Scene by Thomas Hardy There trudges one to a merry-making With sturdy swing, On whom the rain comes down.

To fetch the saving medicament Is another bent, On whom the rain comes down.

One slowly drives his herd to the stall Ere ill befall, On whom the rain comes down.

This bears his missives of life and death With quickening breath, On whom the rain comes down.

One watches for signals of wreck or war From the hill afar, On whom the rain comes down.

No care if he gain a shelter or none, Unhired moves on, On whom the rain comes down.

And another knows nought of its chilling fall Upon him at all, On whom the rain comes down.

--

To Autumn by William Blake

O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain'd With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit Beneath my shady roof; there thou may'st rest, And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, And all the daughters of the year shall dance! Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.

'The narrow bud opens her beauties to The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins; Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, Till clust'ring Summer breaks forth into singing, And feather'd clouds strew flowers round her head.

'The spirits of the air live in the smells Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.' Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat, Then rose, girded himself, and o'er the bleak Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.

--

Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson

In the other gardens And all up the vale, From the autumn bonfires See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over And all the summer flowers, The red fire blazes, The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all! Flowers in the summer, Fires in the fall!

-- AUTUMN FEELINGS. by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

FLOURISH greener, as ye clamber, Oh ye leaves, to seek my chamber,

Up the trellis'd vine on high! May ye swell, twin-berries tender, Juicier far,--and with more splendour

Ripen, and more speedily! O'er ye broods the sun at even As he sinks to rest, and heaven

Softly breathes into your ear All its fertilising fullness, While the moon's refreshing coolness,

Magic-laden, hovers near; And, alas! ye're watered ever

By a stream of tears that rill From mine eyes--tears ceasing never,

Tears of love that nought can still!