Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, "You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams."

Said the leaf indignant, "Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing."



Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again -- and she was a blade of grass.

And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, "O these autumn leaves! They make such a noise! They scatter all my winter dreams"

"Come" said the Wind to the Leaves one day.
"Come over the meadow and we will play.
Put on your dresses of red and gold.
For summer is gone and the days grow cold"

"Señor: Ya es hora. Largo fue el Verano.
Pon tu sombra en los relojes solares,
y suelta los vientos por las llanuras.

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 gray smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
something bright in all!
flowers in the summer,
fires in the fall!

It's all a farce,—these tales they tell
About the breezes sighing,
And moans astir o'er field and dell,
Because the year is dying.

Such principles are most absurd,—
I care not who first taught 'em;
There's nothing known to beast or bird
To make a solemn autumn.

In solemn times, when grief holds sway
With countenance distressing,
You'll note the more of black and gray
Will then be used in dressing.

Now purple tints are all around;
The sky is blue and mellow;
And e'en the grasses turn the ground
From modest green to yellow.

The seed burs all with laughter crack
On featherweed and jimson;
And leaves that should be dressed in black
Are all decked out in crimson.

A butterfly goes winging by;
A singing bird comes after;
And Nature, all from earth to sky,
Is bubbling o'er with laughter.

The ripples wimple on the rills,
Like sparkling little lasses;
The sunlight runs along the hills,
And laughs among the grasses.

The earth is just so full of fun
It really can't contain it;
And streams of mirth so freely run
The heavens seem to rain it.

Don't talk to me of solemn days
In autumn's time of splendor,
Because the sun shows fewer rays,
And these grow slant and slender.

Why, it's the climax of the year,—
The highest time of living!—
Till naturally its bursting cheer
Just melts into thanksgiving

"Ya se fue el Verano
y el Invierno llega;
como lluvia de oro
caen las hojas secas.

Ya cubren la tierra
cual dorada alfombra,
que, bajo los pasos,
se estremece y llora.

Viento de Otoño
por José Hierro
(Fuente) Tema: Alegría a pesar del dolor

"Hemos visto, alegría! dar el viento
gloria final a las hojas doradas.
Arder, fundirse el monte en llamaradas
crepusculares, trágico y sangriento.

Gira, asciende, enloquece, pensamiento.
Hoy el Otoño suelta a sus manadas.
No sientes a lo lejos sus pisadas?
Pasan, dejando el campo amarillento.

When Autumn wind goes running
It does some magic things.
It gives the shadows dancing shoes
It gives the bright leaves wings
When autumn wind goes running

It curls the bonfire's tail of smoke
And shares a little whispered joke
With cornstalks who delight to prattle
It turns a seed pod into a rattle
When Autumn wind goes running.

How silently they tumble down
and come to rest upon the ground.
To lay a carpet, rich and rare
beneath the trees without a care.
Content to sleep, their work well done
colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

"¡Un sol de Otoño, señora mía
Un sol de Otoño que envidiaría
la primavera del Mediodía.

También los valles visten de fiesta
cuando sus rayos doran la cresta
de la cercana colina enhiesta;

cuando se esparcen por la campiña,
sobre las ramas en donde apiña
su ardiente fruto la fresca viña;

cuando en las frondas el viento ruge,
gime y jadea, y al rudo empuje
la frágil rama vacila y cruje.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness!
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Since mid winter I have grown
sunk in roots
and reached branches to the sky.
Each year I leave my seed
weaving myself into her cycle.
I am the that which grows
because of her.
I am that which fertilizes her.
I mark time by my life, and death.
Tonight I will fall.
The outstretched arms of the sun
will lessen, and night
will take over my reign.
Just as my strength shall wane.
But as each fruit
and grain is gathered
seek out the seed
and the knowledge
that I will
be born midwinter again.

Espíritu del Oeste
Por Josiane Antonette (Fuente)

In the colorful sunsets that Autumn brings
May I see myself as the Spirit that I Am
In the passing seasons of Mother Nature
May I know that I Am one with her breath.
In the crisp sounds of falling leaves
May I become aware of my
connection with all lives
And may my heart sing in thankfulness
for the bounty of the Earth