Henry David Thoreau
I am the Autumnal Sun
Sometimes a mortal feels in himself Nature
-- not his Father but his Mother stirs
within him, and he becomes immortal with her
immortality. From time to time she claims
kindredship with us, and some globule
from her veins steals up into our own.
I am the autumnal sun,
With autumn gales my race is run;
When will the hazel put forth its flowers,
Or the grape ripen under my bowers?
When will the harvest or the hunter's moon
Turn my midnight into mid-noon?
I am all sere and yellow,
And to my core mellow.
The mast is dropping within my woods,
The winter is lurking within my moods,
And the rustling of the withered leaf
Is the constant music of my grief...
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (I am the Autumnal Sun by Henry David Thoreau )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Stafford's Cabin, Edwin Arlington Robinson
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Christmas Trees, Robert Frost
- A Dream Within A Dream, Edgar Allan Poe
- Christmas Carol, Sara Teasdale