關於秋天的優美英文詩句

　　秋天的雲像位魔術大師，一會兒變成一對戀人擁抱在一起，一會兒變成一群小動物們快樂地唱歌跳舞，一會兒變成一條條小魚。小編整理了，歡迎閱讀!

　　篇一

　　晚秋的情趣

　　By Adrienne Rich ***女***艾德里安娜。裡奇

　　The river-fog will do for privacy

　　on the low road a breath

　　here， there， a cloudiness floating on the black top

　　sunflower heads turned black and bowed

　　the seas of corn a stubble

　　the old routes flowing north， if not to freedom

　　no human figure now in sight

　　***with whom do you believe your lot is cast?***

　　only the functional figure of the scarecrow

　　the cut corn， ground to shreds， heaped in a shape

　　like an Indian burial mound

　　a haunted-looking， ordinary thing

　　The work of winter starts fermenting in my head

　　how with the hands of a lover or a midwife

　　to hold back till the time is right

　　force nothing， be unforced

　　accept no giant miracles of growth

　　by counterfeit light

　　trust roots， allow the days to shrink

　　give credence to these slender means

　　wait without sadness and with grave impatience

　　here in the north where winter has a meaning

　　where the heaped colors suddenly go ashen

　　where nothing is promised

　　learn what an underground journey

　　has been， might have to be; speak in a winter code

　　let fog， sleet， translate; wind， carry them.

　　篇二

　　A Fall Song

　　by Ellen Robena Field

　　Golden and red trees

　　Nod to the soft breeze,

　　As it whispers, "Winter is near;"

　　And the brown nuts fall

　　At the wind's loud call,

　　For this is the Fall of the year.

　　Good-by, sweet flowers!

　　Through bright Summer hours

　　You have filled our hearts with cheer

　　We shall miss you so,

　　And yet you must go,

　　For this is the Fall of the year.

　　Now the days grow cold,

　　As the year grows old,

　　And the meadows are brown and sere;

　　Brave robin redbreast

　　Has gone from his nest,

　　For this is the Fall of the year.

　　I do softly pray

　　At the close of day,

　　That the little children, so dear,

　　May as purely grow

　　As the fleecy snow

　　That follows the Fall of the year.

　　篇三

　　To Autumn

　　by John Keats J.

　　1

　　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-eves run;

　　To bend with apples the moss’d 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-brimm’d their clammy cells.

　　2

　　Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?

　　Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find

　　Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

　　Thy hair sort-lifted by the winnowing wind;

　　Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,

　　Dows’d 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 cyder-press, with patient look,

　　Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

　　3

　　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 waiful 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 red-breast whistles form a garden-croft;

　　And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.