{"id":1094,"date":"2011-10-03T15:36:45","date_gmt":"2011-10-03T22:36:45","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/patternbasedwriting.com\/elementary_writing_success\/?p=1094"},"modified":"2015-06-02T00:34:36","modified_gmt":"2015-06-02T07:34:36","slug":"autumn-poems-for-kids","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/patternbasedwriting.com\/elementary_writing_success\/autumn-poems-for-kids\/","title":{"rendered":"Autumn Poems for Kids"},"content":{"rendered":"

Welcome to a great collection of autumn and fall poems for kids!<\/strong><\/span> Be sure to check out the very bottom of the page for a few additional autumn poem resources for younger children. (Many of these are classic autumn poems for kids; however, I have only posted poems which I am positive are in the public domain.)<\/p>\n

In this collection you will find:<\/span><\/strong><\/p>\n

\u2022\u00a0A Song of the Woods by Winifred Sackville Stoner, Jr.
\n\u2022\u00a0A Fall Song by Ellen Robena Field
\n\u2022\u00a0Autumn Fires by Robert Louis Stevenson
\n\u2022\u00a0Autumn, Queen of Year by Winifred Sackville Stoner, Jr.
\n\u2022\u00a0Down to Sleep by Helen Hunt Jackson
\n\u2022\u00a0Farewell to the Farm by Robert Louis Stevenson
\n\u2022\u00a0How the Leaves Came Down by Susan Coolidge
\n\u2022\u00a0November by Alice Cary
\n\u2022\u00a0November Morning by Evaleen Stein
\n\u2022\u00a0September by Helen Hunt Jackson
\n\u2022\u00a0October’s Bright Blue Weather by Helen Hunt Jackson
\n\u2022\u00a0The Huskers by John Greenleaf Whittier
\n\u2022\u00a0\u201cAfter Apple-Picking\u201d by Robert Frost
\n\u2022\u00a0The Migration of the Grey Squirrels by William Howitt<\/p>\n

A Song of the Woods<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Winifred Sackville Stoner, Jr. (1902\u20131983) (Written between age five and twelve.)<\/span><\/p>\n

“My leaves are turning crimson,” the giant oak tree said,
\n“It’s almost time these children should seek their winter’s bed,
\nBut how they still cling to me and gleam with crimson hue,
\nThey truly are more lovely than cirrus clouds of blue.<\/p>\n

“And now throughout the forest – list! hear their voices ring,
\nBut ’tis in tones of sadness and sighing they now sing –
\n‘Alas! ’tis gone, fair summer, and winter’s reign is near,
\nHe cruelly strips the forest of all her summer cheer
\nBy killing all her lovely leaves and likewise flowers gay
\nAnd driving all her fairy folk to homes of far away.'”<\/p>\n

A Fall Song<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Ellen Robena Field (published 1894)<\/span><\/p>\n

Golden and red trees
\nNod to the soft breeze,
\nAs it whispers, “Winter is near;”
\nAnd the brown nuts fall
\nAt the wind’s loud call,
\nFor this is the Fall of the year.<\/p>\n

Good-by, sweet flowers!
\nThrough bright Summer hours
\nYou have filled our hearts with cheer
\nWe shall miss you so,
\nAnd yet you must go,
\nFor this is the Fall of the year.<\/p>\n

Now the days grow cold,
\nAs the year grows old,
\nAnd the meadows are brown and sere;
\nBrave robin redbreast
\nHas gone from his nest,
\nFor this is the Fall of the year.<\/p>\n

I do softly pray
\nAt the close of day,
\nThat the little children, so dear,
\nMay as purely grow
\nAs the fleecy snow
\nThat follows the Fall of the year.<\/p>\n

Autumn Fires<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850\u20131894)<\/span><\/p>\n

In the other gardens
\nAnd all up the vale,
\nFrom the autumn bonfires
\nSee the smoke trail!<\/p>\n

Pleasant summer over
\nAnd all the summer flowers,
\nThe red fire blazes,
\nThe grey smoke towers.<\/p>\n

Sing a song of seasons!
\nSomething bright in all!
\nFlowers in the summer,
\nFires in the fall!<\/p>\n

Autumn, Queen of Year<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Winifred Sackville Stoner, Jr. (1902\u20131983) (Written between age five and twelve.)<\/span><\/p>\n

When the pumpkins are so yellow
\nAnd the vines with grapes abound,
\nWhen the melons are so mellow
\nAnd the nuts fall to the ground;
\nWhen persimmons lose their bitters,
\nAnd the apples are so red;
\nWhen we love to eat corn fritters
\nSince the roasting ears have fled;
\nWhen vacation days are over
\nAnd the children go to school,
\nThey no longer play in clover,
\nBut much learn “Arithmos-rule,”
\nWhen weird Hallowe’en’s most naughty elves
\nWith gnomes and sprites appear,
\nWhile fat Thanksgiving fills the shelves –
\n‘Tis AUTUMN, QUEEN OF YEAR.<\/p>\n

Down to Sleep<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Helen Hunt Jackson (1830 – 1885)<\/span><\/p>\n

November woods are bare and still;
\nNovember days are clear and bright;
\nEach noon burns up the morning’s chill;
\nThe morning’s snow is gone by night.
\nEach day my steps grow slow, grow light,
\nAs through the woods I reverent creep,
\nWatching all things lie “down to sleep.”<\/p>\n

I never knew before what beds,
\nFragrant to smell, and soft to touch,
\nThe forest sifts and shapes and spreads;
\nI never knew before how much
\nOf human sound there is in such
\nLow tones as through the forest sweep,
\nWhen all wild things lie “down to sleep.”<\/p>\n

Each day I find new coverlids
\nTucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight;
\nSometimes the viewless mother bids
\nHer ferns kneel down full in my sight;
\nI hear their chorus of “good-night”;
\nAnd half I smile, and half I weep,
\nListening while they lie “down to sleep.”<\/p>\n

November woods are bare and still;
\nNovember days are bright and good;
\nLife’s noon burns up life’s morning chill;
\nLife’s night rests feet which long have stood;
\nSome warm soft bed, in field or wood,
\nThe mother will not fail to keep,
\nWhere we can “lay us down to sleep.”<\/p>\n

Farewell to the Farm<\/span><\/h3>\n

\u00a0by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850\u20131894)<\/span><\/p>\n

The coach is at the door at last;
\nThe eager children, mounting fast
\nAnd kissing hands, in chorus sing:
\nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything!<\/p>\n

To house and garden, field and lawn,
\nThe meadow-gates we swang upon,
\nTo pump and stable, tree and swing,
\nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything!<\/p>\n

And fare you well for evermore,
\nO ladder at the hayloft door,
\nO hayloft where the cobwebs cling,
\nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything!<\/p>\n

Crack goes the whip, and off we go;
\nThe trees and houses smaller grow;
\nLast, round the woody turn we sing:
\nGood-bye, good-bye, to everything!<\/p>\n

How the Leaves Came Down<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Susan Coolidge (1835 \u2013 1905)<\/span><\/p>\n

“I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,”
\nThe great tree to his children said,
\n“You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown,
\nYes, very sleepy, little Red.
\nIt is quite time to go to bed.”<\/p>\n

“Ah!” begged each silly, pouting leaf,
\n“Let us a little longer stay;
\nDear Father Tree, behold our grief;
\nTis such a very pleasant day
\nWe do not want to go away.”<\/p>\n

So, for just one more merry day
\nTo the great tree the leaflets clung,
\nFrolicked and danced, and had their way,
\nUpon the autumn breezes swung,
\nWhispering all their sports among,–<\/p>\n

“Perhaps the great tree will forget,
\nAnd let us stay until the spring,
\nIf we all beg, and coax, and fret.”
\nBut the great tree did no such thing;
\nHe smiled to hear their whispering.<\/p>\n

“Come, children, all to bed,” he cried;
\nAnd ere the leaves could urge their prayer,
\nHe shook his head, and far and wide,
\nFluttering and rustling everywhere,
\nDown sped the leaflets through the air.<\/p>\n

I saw them; on the ground they lay,
\nGolden and red, a huddled swarm,
\nWaiting till one from far away,
\nWhite bedclothes heaped upon her arm,
\nShould come to wrap them safe and warm.<\/p>\n

The great bare tree looked down and smiled,
\n“Good-night, dear little leaves,” he said.
\nAnd from below each sleepy child
\nReplied, “Good-night,” and murmured,
\n“It is so nice to go to bed!”<\/p>\n

November<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Alice Cary (1820 \u2013 1871)<\/span><\/p>\n

The leaves are fading and falling;
\nThe winds are rough and wild;
\nThe birds have ceased their calling–
\nBut let me tell you, my child,<\/p>\n

Though day by day, as it closes,
\nDoth darker and colder grow,
\nThe roots of the bright red roses
\nWill keep alive in the snow.<\/p>\n

And when the winter is over,
\nThe boughs will get new leaves,
\nThe quail come back to the clover,
\nAnd the swallow back to the eaves.<\/p>\n

The robin will wear on his bosom
\nA vest that is bright and new,
\nAnd the loveliest wayside blossom
\nWill shine with the sun and dew.<\/p>\n

The leaves today are whirling;
\nThe brooks are all dry and dumb–
\nBut let me tell you, my darling,
\nThe spring will be sure to come.<\/p>\n

There must be rough, cold weather,
\nAnd winds and rains so wild;
\nNot all good things together
\nCome to us here, my child.<\/p>\n

So, when some dear joy loses
\nIts beauteous summer glow,
\nThink how the roots of the roses
\nAre kept alive in the snow.<\/p>\n

November Morning<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Evaleen Stein (1863 – 1923)<\/span><\/p>\n

A tingling, misty marvel
\nBlew hither in the night,
\nAnd now the little peach-trees
\nAre clasped in frozen light.<\/p>\n

Upon the apple branches
\nAn icy film is caught,
\nWith trailing threads of gossamer
\nIn pearly patterns wrought.<\/p>\n

The autumn sun, in wonder,
\nIs gayly peering through
\nThis silver tissued network
\nAcross the frosty blue.<\/p>\n

The weather vane is fire tipped,
\nThe honeysuckle shows
\nA dazzling icy splendor,
\nAnd crystal is the rose.<\/p>\n

Around the eaves are fringes
\nOf icicles that seem
\nTo mock the summer rainbows
\nWith many colored gleam.<\/p>\n

Along the walk, the pebbles
\nAre each a precious stone;
\nThe grass is tasseled hoarfrost,
\nThe clover jewel sown.<\/p>\n

Such sparkle, sparkle, sparkle
\nFills all the frosty air,
\nOh, can it be that darkness
\nIs ever anywhere!<\/p>\n

September<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Helen Hunt Jackson (1831 – 1885)<\/span><\/p>\n

The goldenrod is yellow;
\nThe corn is turning brown;
\nThe trees in apple orchards
\nWith fruit are bending down.<\/p>\n

The gentian’s bluest fringes
\nAre curling in the sun;
\nIn dusky pods the milkweed
\nIts hidden silk has spun.<\/p>\n

The sedges flaunt their harvest
\nIn every meadow-nook;
\nAnd asters by the brookside
\nMake asters in the brook.<\/p>\n

From dewy lanes at morning
\nThe grapes’ sweet odors rise;
\nAt noon the roads all flutter
\nWith yellow butterflies.<\/p>\n

By all these lovely tokens
\nSeptember days are here,
\nWith summer’s best of weather,
\nAnd autumn’s best of cheer.<\/p>\n

October’s Bright Blue Weather<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Helen Hunt Jackson (1831 – 1885)<\/span><\/p>\n

O sun and skies and clouds of June
\nAnd flowers of June together,
\nYe cannot rival for one hour
\nOctober’s bright blue weather;<\/p>\n

When loud the bumblebee makes haste,
\nBelated, thriftless vagrant,
\nAnd goldenrod is dying fast,
\nAnd lanes with grapes are fragrant;<\/p>\n

When gentians roll their fringes tight,
\nTo save them for the morning,
\nAnd chestnuts fall from satin burs
\nWithout a sound of warning;<\/p>\n

When on the ground red apples lie
\nIn piles like jewels shining,
\nAnd redder still on old stone walls
\nAre leaves of woodbine twining;<\/p>\n

When all the lovely wayside things
\nTheir white-winged seeds are sowing,
\nAnd in the fields, still green and fair,
\nLate aftermaths are growing;<\/p>\n

When springs run low, and on the brooks
\nIn idle, golden freighting,
\nBright leaves sink noiseless in the hush
\nOf woods, for winter waiting;<\/p>\n

When comrades seek sweet country haunt
\nBy twos and twos together,
\nAnd count like misers hour by hour
\nOctober’s bright blue weather.<\/p>\n

O sun and skies and flowers of June,
\nCount all your boasts together,
\nLove loveth best of all the year
\nOctober’s bright blue weather.<\/p>\n

The Huskers<\/span><\/h3>\n

by John Greenleaf Whittier (1807 – 1892)<\/span><\/p>\n

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
\nHad left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;
\nThe first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay
\nWith the hues of summer’s rainbow or the meadow flowers of May.<\/p>\n

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red;
\nAt first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;
\nYet even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued
\nOn the cornfields and the orchards and softly pictured wood.<\/p>\n

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
\nHe wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
\nSlanting through the tented beeches, he glorified the hill;
\nAnd, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.<\/p>\n

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,
\nFlecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;
\nAnd schoolgirls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,
\nMingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.<\/p>\n

From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks;
\nBut even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.
\nNo sound was in the woodlands save the squirrel’s dropping shell,
\nAnd the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.<\/p>\n

The summer grains were harvested; the stubble-fields lay dry,
\nWhere June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye;
\nBut still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,
\nungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.<\/p>\n

Bent low by autumn’s wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sear,
\nUnfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear;
\nBeneath, the turnip lay concealed in many a verdant fold,
\nAnd glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin’s sphere of gold.<\/p>\n

There wrought the busy harvester, and many a creaking wain
\nBore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain;
\nTill broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down at last,
\nAnd like a merry guest’s farewell the day in brightness passed.<\/p>\n

And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,
\nFlamed the red radiance of a sky set all afire beyond,
\nSlowly o’er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
\nAnd the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!<\/p>\n

As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,
\nAnd deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay,
\nFrom many a brown old farmhouse and hamlet without name,
\nTheir milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.<\/p>\n

Swung o’er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
\nShone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below,
\nThe glowing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
\nAnd laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o’er.<\/p>\n

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
\nTalking their old times over, the old men sat apart;
\nWhile up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
\nAt hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.<\/p>\n

Urged by the good host’s daughter, a maiden young and fair,
\nLifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair,
\nThe master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
\nTo the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.<\/p>\n

After Apple-Picking<\/span><\/h3>\n

by Robert Frost (1874\u20131963)<\/span><\/p>\n

My long two-pointed ladder\u2019s sticking through a tree
\nToward heaven still,
\nAnd there\u2019s a barrel that I didn\u2019t fill
\nBeside it, and there may be two or three
\nApples I didn\u2019t pick upon some bough.
\nBut I am done with apple-picking now.
\nEssence of winter sleep is on the night,
\nThe scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
\nI cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
\nI got from looking through a pane of glass
\nI skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
\nAnd held against the world of hoary grass.
\nIt melted, and I let it fall and break.
\nBut I was well
\nUpon my way to sleep before it fell,
\nAnd I could tell
\nWhat form my dreaming was about to take.
\nMagnified apples appear and disappear,
\nStem end and blossom end,
\nAnd every fleck of russet showing clear.
\nMy instep arch not only keeps the ache,
\nIt keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
\nI feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
\nAnd I keep hearing from the cellar bin
\nThe rumbling sound
\nOf load on load of apples coming in.
\nFor I have had too much
\nOf apple-picking: I am overtired
\nOf the great harvest I myself desired.
\nThere were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
\nCherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
\nFor all
\nThat struck the earth,
\nNo matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
\nWent surely to the cider-apple heap
\nAs of no worth.
\nOne can see what will trouble
\nThis sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
\nWere he not gone,
\nThe woodchuck could say whether it\u2019s like his
\nLong sleep, as I describe its coming on,
\nOr just some human sleep.<\/p>\n

The Migration of the Grey Squirrels<\/span><\/h3>\n

by William Howitt (1792 – 1879)<\/span><\/p>\n

When in my youth I traveled
\nThroughout each north country,
\nMany a strange thing did I hear,
\nAnd many a strange thing to see.<\/p>\n

But nothing was there pleased me more
\nThan when, in autumn brown,
\nI came, in the depths of the pathless woods,
\nTo the grey squirrels’ town.<\/p>\n

There were hundreds that in the hollow boles
\nOf the old, old trees did dwell,
\nAnd laid up store, hard by their door,
\nOf the sweet mast as it fell.<\/p>\n

But soon the hungry wild swine came,
\nAnd with thievish snouts dug up
\nTheir buried treasure, and left them not
\nSo much as an acorn cup.<\/p>\n

Then did they chatter in angry mood,
\nAnd one and all decree,
\nInto the forests of rich stone-pine
\nOver hill and dale to flee.<\/p>\n

Over hill and dale, over hill and dale,
\nFor many a league they went,
\nLike a troop of undaunted travelers
\nGoverned by one consent.<\/p>\n

But the hawk and the eagle, and peering owl,
\nDid dreadfully pursue;
\nWhen lo! to cut off their pilgrimage,
\nA broad stream lay in view.<\/p>\n

But then did each wondrous creature show
\nHis cunning and bravery;
\nWith a piece of the pine-bark in his mouth,
\nUnto the stream came he;<\/p>\n

And boldly his little bark he launched,
\nWithout the least delay;
\nHis busy tail was his upright sail,
\nAnd he merrily steered away.<\/p>\n

Never was there a lovelier sight
\nThan that grey squirrels’ fleet;
\nAnd with anxious eyes I watched to see
\nWhat fortune it would meet.<\/p>\n

Soon had they reached the rough mild-stream,
\nAnd ever and anon
\nI grieved to behold some bark wrecked,
\nAnd its little steersman gone.<\/p>\n

But the main fleet stoutly held across;
\nI saw them leap to shore;
\nThey entered the woods with a cry of joy,
\nFor their perilous march was o’er.<\/p>\n

Other Autumn Poem Resources:<\/span><\/h3>\n

\u2022\u00a0Leaves by Elsie N. Brady
\n\u2022\u00a0A Child\u2019s Calendar (September, October, November) by John Updike
\n\u2022\u00a0Gathering Leaves by Robert Frost
\n\u2022\u00a0http:\/\/www.teachingfirst.net\/Poems\/Autumn.html<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Welcome to a great collection of autumn and fall poems for kids! Be sure to check out the very bottom of the page for a few additional autumn poem resources for younger children. (Many of these are classic autumn poems for kids; however, I have only posted poems which I am positive are in the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":2002,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[126,117],"tags":[303,302,299,304,301,305,300],"class_list":["post-1094","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-seasonal-and-holiday-writing-ideas","category-teaching-children-poetry","tag-autumn-poem-kids","tag-autumn-poems-fall-poems","tag-autumn-poems-for-children","tag-autumn-poems-robert-frost","tag-famous-autumn-poems","tag-poetry-for-children","tag-short-autumn-poems"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t