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Autumn Poetry

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YOU can write poems too!

How do you know it is autumn? What are the clues? What do you see? Hear? Smell? What things only happen in nature in autumn? How does autumn make you feel?

Woods


Brainstorm a few autumnal ideas on your own or with friends. Have a go at making your ideas into a poem. What sort will you write? Rhyming couplets? Blank verse? Personification? Accrostic? List?
 

 

Illustrate poems with real leaves

Poem

Use a Scanner to scan Autumn leaves. 
Save the image and insert into a Word document to illustrate a poem.

 

Autumn Poems

The Colours of Autumn 

Filling the sky with crimson and gold,
Leaves scatter without a sound.
Carelessly dancing in the crisp autumn air,
they gently cascade to the ground.
Covering the earth like a warm blanket,
of brilliant colour and beauty,
the changing of the season beckons
for all the world to see.

~~Author Unknown.~~

 

Ode To Autumn by John Keats

Keats

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'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

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.

 

 

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