- Published on
Autumn
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
By Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson was born on 10 December 1830 in Amherst, Massachusetts, United States of America. Though considered one of the great poets, she was shy and reclusive. She never married, seldom left her house, and had few visitors. Only seven of her nearly 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime, all anonymously. Emily Dickinson passed on at 55 years of age on 15 May 1886 in Amherst, Massachusetts, United States of America. The first collection of her verse, titled “Poems,” was published four years later.
The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheek is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
By Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson was born on 10 December 1830 in Amherst, Massachusetts, United States of America. Though considered one of the great poets, she was shy and reclusive. She never married, seldom left her house, and had few visitors. Only seven of her nearly 1,800 poems were published during her lifetime, all anonymously. Emily Dickinson passed on at 55 years of age on 15 May 1886 in Amherst, Massachusetts, United States of America. The first collection of her verse, titled “Poems,” was published four years later.
- Published on
Winter
Cold and raw the north wind doth blow,
Bleak in the morning early;
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter’s now come fairly.
When the Snow is on the Ground
The little robin grieves
When the snow is on the ground,
For the trees have no leaves,
And no berries can be found.
The air is cold, the worms are hid;
For robin here what can be done?
Let’s strow* around some crumbs of bread,
And then he’ll live till snow is gone.
By Author Unknown
*strow: an old form of the word ‘strew,’ meaning ‘to scatter, or throw about in a disorderly manner.’
Cold and raw the north wind doth blow,
Bleak in the morning early;
All the hills are covered with snow,
And winter’s now come fairly.
When the Snow is on the Ground
The little robin grieves
When the snow is on the ground,
For the trees have no leaves,
And no berries can be found.
The air is cold, the worms are hid;
For robin here what can be done?
Let’s strow* around some crumbs of bread,
And then he’ll live till snow is gone.
By Author Unknown
*strow: an old form of the word ‘strew,’ meaning ‘to scatter, or throw about in a disorderly manner.’
- Published on
Bed Of Leaves
The nicest bed I know
Isn’t a bed of soft white snow.
Isn’t a bed of cool green grass
After the noisy mowers pass.
Isn’t a bed of yellow hay
Making me itch for half a day
But Autumn leaves in a pile that high,
Deep and smelling like fall and dry.
That’s the bed where I like to lie
And watch the flutters of Fall go by.
By Aileen Fisher
Aileen Lucia Fisher was born on 9 September 1906 in Iron River, Michigan, United States of America. She became a writer of poetry, children’s books, biographies, plays, and magazine articles. Aileen Lucia Fisher passed on at 96 years of age on 2 December 2002 in Boulder, Colorado, United States of America.
The nicest bed I know
Isn’t a bed of soft white snow.
Isn’t a bed of cool green grass
After the noisy mowers pass.
Isn’t a bed of yellow hay
Making me itch for half a day
But Autumn leaves in a pile that high,
Deep and smelling like fall and dry.
That’s the bed where I like to lie
And watch the flutters of Fall go by.
By Aileen Fisher
Aileen Lucia Fisher was born on 9 September 1906 in Iron River, Michigan, United States of America. She became a writer of poetry, children’s books, biographies, plays, and magazine articles. Aileen Lucia Fisher passed on at 96 years of age on 2 December 2002 in Boulder, Colorado, United States of America.
- Published on
Song Of Summer
Here comes a bunny
The first to stray
Out of April
And into May.
And here comes a robin
The first to fly
Out of June
And into July.
Here are the fireflies
Last to remember
The end of August
And first of September.
And here comes a caterpillar
The last to creep
Out of summer
And into sleep.
By Margaret Wise Brown
Margaret Wise Brown was born on 23 May 1910 in Brooklyn, New York, United States of America. She became a poet and a writer of children’s books. Her published works include, “Goodnight Moon” (1947). Margaret Wise Brown passed on at 42 years of age on 13 November 1952 in Nice, France.
Here comes a bunny
The first to stray
Out of April
And into May.
And here comes a robin
The first to fly
Out of June
And into July.
Here are the fireflies
Last to remember
The end of August
And first of September.
And here comes a caterpillar
The last to creep
Out of summer
And into sleep.
By Margaret Wise Brown
Margaret Wise Brown was born on 23 May 1910 in Brooklyn, New York, United States of America. She became a poet and a writer of children’s books. Her published works include, “Goodnight Moon” (1947). Margaret Wise Brown passed on at 42 years of age on 13 November 1952 in Nice, France.
- Published on
Winter Animals
Winter is cold,
There is snow in the sky.
The squirrel gathers nuts,
And the wild geese fly.
The fluffy red fox,
Has his fur to keep warm.
The bear’s in her cave,
Sleeping all through the storm.
By Author Unknown
Winter is cold,
There is snow in the sky.
The squirrel gathers nuts,
And the wild geese fly.
The fluffy red fox,
Has his fur to keep warm.
The bear’s in her cave,
Sleeping all through the storm.
By Author Unknown
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Wishing For Tomorrow
To see the tulips peek their heads
To see the green of lawns
To feel the warmth of quiet sunshine
To see the young foals romping
But this is winter and I long for spring.
To have a picnic in the park
To see the harvest fields of grain
To see the visitors to the mountain
To ride horseback up the trails
But this is spring and I long for summer.
To see the changing colors of the leaves
To see the children waiting for the bus
To feel the crispness in the air
To see the frost on the garden
But this is summer and I long for fall.
To see the beautiful banks of snow
To see the Christmas lights on trees
To spend some time on the ski slopes
To enjoy a long President’s Day weekend
But this is fall and I long for winter.
To wish for seasons still to come
To wish away one’s life.
How much better to enjoy
The seasons as they are
Than always wishing for tomorrow.
By Bob Ohlsen
To see the tulips peek their heads
To see the green of lawns
To feel the warmth of quiet sunshine
To see the young foals romping
But this is winter and I long for spring.
To have a picnic in the park
To see the harvest fields of grain
To see the visitors to the mountain
To ride horseback up the trails
But this is spring and I long for summer.
To see the changing colors of the leaves
To see the children waiting for the bus
To feel the crispness in the air
To see the frost on the garden
But this is summer and I long for fall.
To see the beautiful banks of snow
To see the Christmas lights on trees
To spend some time on the ski slopes
To enjoy a long President’s Day weekend
But this is fall and I long for winter.
To wish for seasons still to come
To wish away one’s life.
How much better to enjoy
The seasons as they are
Than always wishing for tomorrow.
By Bob Ohlsen
