Soon we will plunge ourselves into cold shadows,
And all of summer's stunning afternoons will be gone.
I already hear the dead thuds of logs below
Falling on the cobblestones and the lawn.
All of winter will return to me:
derision, Hate, shuddering, horror, drudgery and vice,
And exiled, like the sun, to a polar prison,
My soul will harden into a block of red ice.
I shiver as I listen to each log crash and slam:
The echoes are as dull as executioners' drums.
My mind is like a tower that slowly succumbs
To the blows of a relentless battering ram.
It seems to me, swaying to these shocks, that someone
Is nailing down a coffin in a hurry somewhere.
For whom? -- It was summer yesterday; now it's autumn.
Echoes of departure keep resounding in the air.
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Comments about this poem (Autumn by Charles Baudelaire )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
(8 February 1911 – 6 October 1979)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- The Saddest Poem, Pablo Neruda
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep, Mary Elizabeth Frye
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- XVII (I do not love you...), Pablo Neruda
- The Criminal V, Khalil Gibran
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