The Prose, The Poetry of Autumn

Many see it as a time of death, the death of summer and leaves. I can only see it as glorious, a beautiful blazing.... 

Autumn is deserving of Poetry and Prose...

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou see’st the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

~ Shakespeare, Sonnet 73 

 And yellow is the woodland bough; And every leaf of bush and weed Is tipt with autumn’s pencil now. 

 And I do love the varied hue,
And I do love the browning plain;
And I do love each scene to view,
That’s mark’d with beauties of her reign.

 ~ John Clare, Autumn

Come autumn’s scathe — come winter’s cold — Come change — and human fate! Whatever prospect Heaven doth bound, Can ne’er be desolate. 
- The Autumn by Elizabeth Barrett Browing

O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day; At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow!

- Robert Frost, October