The Pumpkin
Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run,
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold,
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,
While he waited to know that his warning was true,
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain
For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain.
On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden;
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;
Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines,
And the sun of September melts down on his vines.
Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,
From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest;
When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board
The old broken links of affection restored;
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before;
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye,
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie?
Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling,
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, -- our lantern the moon,
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team!
Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow,
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Daddys Little Pumpkin
You must be daddys little pumpkin
I can tell by the way you roll
You must be daddys little pumpkin
I can tell by the way you roll
Why its quarter past eleven
And youre sleeping on the bedroom floor
I can see the fire burning
Burning right behind your eyes
I can see the fire burning
Burning right behind your eyes
You must of swallowed a candle
Or some other kind of surprise
Im going down to memphis
I got three hundred dollars in cash
Im going down to memphis
I got three hundred dollars in cash
All the women in memphis
Want to see how long my money will last
Im going downtown
Im gonna to rattle somebodys cage
Im going downtown
Im gonna rattle somebodys cage
Im gonna beat on my guitar
And strut all around the stage
If you see my baby coming
Dont tell her that her daddys in jail
If you see my baby coming
Dont you tell her that her daddys in jail
Shed sell her little pumpkin just to raise
Her sweet daddys bail
You must be daddys little pumpkin
I can tell by the way you roll
You must be daddys little pumpkin
I can tell by the way you roll
You never do nothing
To save your doggone soul.
song performed by by John Prine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Screaming of The Corn
The summer was long
The summer was hot
The summer was dry
Days passed with
Not a cloud in the sky
And we had to water.
Everything that didn’t get water died.
The lawn dried up and blew away.
But the tomatoes grew and grew
And gave wave after wave
Of ruby red fruit.
We ate tomatoes until our gums were sore
Than gave the rest away
Only to find,
come morning yet more.
The pumpkin vines grew across the yard
When the cat walked by
The tendrils rose up
Like snakes and hissed menacingly.
We ate corn every day for a week
until the snap beans over powered
the corn stalks
breaking them down
Under the weight
Of fruit
And then we ate beans
And beans
And beans.
And the zucchini! ! !
The fruit grew right in front of our eyes
Not even waiting for the decency of night.
To veil it’s obscene, priapic swelling.
At night we prayed of the coming frost
And an end to this riotous fecundity.
But our dreams were filled with
feverish images of
Zucchini as big as zeppelins
Tomatoes the size of houses
And the screaming of the corn.
poem by Allan Thorne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Corn Song
HEAP HIGH the farmer’s wintry hoard!
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Through vales of grass and meads of flowers
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.
We dropped the seed o’er hill and plain
Beneath the sun of May,
And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.
All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,
And waved in hot midsummer’s noon
Its soft and yellow hair.
And now, with autumn’s moonlit eves,
Its harvest-time has come,
We pluck away the frosted leaves,
And bear the treasure home.
There, richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,
And knead its meal of gold.
Let vapid idlers loll in silk
Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth
And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly:
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for His golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
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Get Up & Jump
Get up and jump, get up and jump, get up, get up, get up and jump
Jump on up
Jump on down
Just jump a jump a jump a jump a jump around
Jump the day away
Jump all over town
cos jumpin is o.k. in a jumpin kinda way, hey hey!
Jump a boy
Jump a girl
Jump a rope
Jump for joy
Just dont stop jumpin
Keep your heart muscle pumpin
Hillel be jumpin on that little baby frumpkin
Say what, you got a pumpkin in your pants?
When youre just standing or sitting still
Think about the frogs gettin a thrill
Take a little lesson from the kangaroos
Dont you know theyre jumpin foos, jump you!
Jump a nun
Jump a jack
Jump for fun
Jump back
Hows about us jumpin in the sack?
And now, its time for a jump attack
Get up and jump (x8)
Jam bob, jim bob, slim bob boogie
To the tune of slima billy
Lookin like youre mighty silly
Say what, you got a pumpkin in your pants?
Say what, you got a pumpkin in your pants?
Mister mexican jumpin bean knows
His fun is skeaky clean
Christ, howd ya think that he got so clean?
Not from sittin on his goddamn spleen. get up!
Oh, I be jumpin I be jumpin I be jumpin alone
I be jumpin for the phone
I be jumpin misses jones
I really wanna jump on kinskis bones
Get up and jump (x8)
Get up and jump (x8)
Jam bob, jim bob, slim bob boogie
To the tune of slima billy
Lookin like youre mighty silly
Say what, you got a pumpkin in your pants?
Say what, you got a pumpkin in your pants?
song performed by by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Roses Are Free
Take a piece of tinsel and put it on the tree
Cut a slab of melon and pretend that you still love me
Carve out a pumpkin and rely on your destiny
Get in your car and cruise the land of the brave and the free
But dont forget to understand exactly what you put on the tree
Dont believe the florist when he tells you that the roses are free
Tke a wrinkled raisin, and do with it what you will
Push it into third if you know youre gonna climb a hill
Eat plenty of lasagna til you know that youve had your fill
Resist all the urges that make you wanna go out and kill
But dont forget to understand exactly what you put on the tree
Dont believe the florist when he tells you that the roses are free
Throw that pumpkin at the tree
Unless you think that pumpkin holds your destiny
Cast it off into the sea, bake that pie and eat it with me
[repeat]
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Childhood Memories Two: Flight Of Bumble Bees
down the rabbit hole
of childhood memories
we tumble into lost world
chasing arriving bumble bees
hunting in prairie of Father’s
pumpkin plants stalking prey
bumble bees fly in proudly
wearing Westport rugby jerseys
in unseasonal yearly attire
buzzing in upon summer breezes
industriously gathering pollen nectar
pollinating all pumpkin flowers
flight from flower to flower flit
will ensure a harvest of pumpkin
baked in roasts in Mother’s oven
boiled served with other vegetables
coated with butter tongue delighting
made into warming winter soups
in stealth with nimble child speed
stalk I do these hardy bumble bees
catching them inside pumpkin flower
after they alight happily crawl inside
to gather proudly pumpkin pollen nectar
to bind in yellow balls about their legs
ah the delight to see fruits of harvest
labour colourfully bound display
as winged workers milk powdery
feasts with nimble fingers falls upon
them great white hunter quickly ties
off closed cup flower with pumpkin
tendril vine stands back awaits buzz
protest as offended harvester discovers
trap of tied capture skillfully quickly
wrought and off to new flowers I flit
in race to capture new bumble bees
to proudly view my bound trophies
in flowery isolation cells of my own
childhood invention what wonder
living trophies sing a song of affront
as Houdini insect escape artists chew
cleverly through flower cells in record
crowd of one pleasing escapes admired
such sport and all fair sporting release
is so admirably individually earned
my Father probes mystery strange sealed
flowers appearing historically preceding
later crop circle mysteries puzzled tells
Mother no explainable cause I soon solve
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Huskers
IT was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again;
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay
With the hues of summer's rainbow, or the meadow flowers of May.
Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and red,
At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped;
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued,
On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood.
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night,
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light;
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill;
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still.
And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that sky,
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not why;
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow brooks,
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks.
From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks;
But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks.
No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping shell,
And the yellow leaves among the boughs, low rustling as they fell.
The summer grains were harvested; the stubblefields lay dry,
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green waves of rye;
But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood,
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood.
Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere,
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear;
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold,
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold.
There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor is load of husk and grain;
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last,
And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed.
And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and pond,
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond,
Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone,
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one!
As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away,
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay;
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name,
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came.
Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow,
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below;
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before,
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
Half hidden, in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart,
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart;
While up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade,
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played.
Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair,
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair,
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue,
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung.
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bendigo
A golden maid whose golden voice
Calls to the northern lands,
Of riches she has had her choice.
Twin treasures to make men rejoice
Came easy to her hands:
The golden harvest of broad fields,
Or that dark gift of sudden yields
Won from her golden sands.
But men have scorned her worthier pride
In rich and fruitful soil;
And, spreading desolation wide,
Ranged all her verdant countryside
To ravage and despoil.
And now grey wastes of tortured earth
Await the glory of rebirth
Thro' nature's patient toil.
She has the wish, she has the will
To gather beauty round.
Though gold's fierce lure stays with her still,
She lives to plan and strive until
Springs from this barren ground
Earth's only treasure, scorned of yore,
And smiling verdure clothes once more
Full many a bare, bleak mound.
She guards the gateway of the north
The broad lands of the sun.
Hospitably her hand goes forth,
Eager to vindicate the worth
Of happier tasks begun,
And in gay gardens to express
A newer urge to loveliness
And kinder virtues won.
A virile lass, in no wise strange,
Of true Australian breed:
Where drab days into sunlight charge
Across the Great Dividing Range
She scatters now the seed
That shall bring yields a thousandfold
When gardens count for more than gold
And peace outvalues greed.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bein' Back Home
HOME agin, an' home to stay —
Yes, it's nice to be away.
Plenty things to do an' see,
But the old place seems to me
Jest about the proper thing.
Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling
Closer 'round yore place o' birth
'N ary other spot on earth.
W'y it's nice jest settin' here,
Lookin' out an' seein' clear,
'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze
In these sweet October days.
What's as good as that there lane,
Kind o' browned from last night's rain?
'Pears like home has got the start
When the goal's a feller's heart.
What's as good as that there jay
Screechin' up'ards towards the gray
Skies? An' tell me, what's as fine
As that full-leafed pumpkin vine?
Tow'rin' buildin's — yes, they're good;
But in sight o' field and wood,
Then a feller understan's
'Bout the house not made with han's
Let the others rant an' roam
When they git away from home;
Jest gi' me my old settee
An' my pipe beneath a tree;
Sight o' medders green an' still,
Now and then a gentle hill.
Apple orchards, full o' fruit,
Nigh a cider press to boot —
That's the thing jest done up brown;
D'want to be too nigh to town;
Want to have the smells an' sights,
An' the dreams o' long still nights,
With the friends you used to know
In the keerless long ago.—
Same old cronies, same old folks,
Same old cider, same old jokes.
Say, it's nice a-gittin' back,
When yore pulse is growin' slack,
An' yore breath begins to wheeze
Like a fair-set valley breeze;
Kind o' nice to set aroun'
On the old familiar groun',
Knowin' that when Death does come,
That he'll find you right at home.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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It Must Be October
The harvest moon hangs round and high
It dodges clouds high in the sky
The stars wink down their love and mirth
The Autumn seasons is giving birth
Oh it must be October
The leaves of red bright gold and brown
To Mother earth come tumbling down
The breezy nights the ghostly sights
The eerie spooky far off sounds
Are signs that its October
The pumpkin yellow big and round
Are carried by costumed clumsy clowns
Its Halloween lets celebrate
Come one come all and don't be late
We know now its October
We'll roast and toast some luscious food
For apples we'll be bobbin
While tales are told around the fire
Of timely ghosts and goblins
Oh how we love October
The moon has grown pale
The stars have grown dim
Our Halloween party is over
With a hi-de-ho homeward we'll go
What a delightful month October
poem by Pearl N. Sorrels
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August
THERE WERE four apples on the bough,
Half gold half red, that one might know
The blood was ripe inside the core;
The colour of the leaves was more
Like stems of yellow corn that grow
Through all the gold June meadow’s floor.
The warm smell of the fruit was good
To feed on, and the split green wood,
With all its bearded lips and stains
Of mosses in the cloven veins,
Most pleasant, if one lay or stood
In sunshine or in happy rains.
There were four apples on the tree,
Red stained through gold, that all might see
The sun went warm from core to rind;
The green leaves made the summer blind
In that soft place they kept for me
With golden apples shut behind.
The leaves caught gold across the sun,
And where the bluest air begun,
Thirsted for song to help the heat;
As I to feel my lady’s feet
Draw close before the day were done;
Both lips grew dry with dreams of it.
In the mute August afternoon
They trembled to some undertune
Of music in the silver air;
Great pleasure was it to be there
Till green turned duskier and the moon
Coloured the corn-sheaves like gold hair.
That August time it was delight
To watch the red moons wane to white
’Twixt grey seamed stems of apple-trees;
A sense of heavy harmonies
Grew on the growth of patient night,
More sweet than shapen music is.
But some three hours before the moon
The air, still eager from the noon,
Flagged after heat, not wholly dead;
Against the stem I leant my head;
The colour soothed me like a tune,
Green leaves all round the gold and red.
I lay there till the warm smell grew
More sharp, when flecks of yellow dew
Between the round ripe leaves had blurred
The rind with stain and wet; I heard
A wind that blew and breathed and blew,
Too weak to alter its one word.
The wet leaves next the gentle fruit
Felt smoother, and the brown tree-root
Felt the mould warmer: I too felt
(As water feels the slow gold melt
Right through it when the day burns mute)
The peace of time wherein love dwelt.
There were four apples on the tree,
Gold stained on red that all might see
The sweet blood filled them to the core:
The colour of her hair is more
Like stems of fair faint gold, that be
Mown from the harvest’s middle floor.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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Melancholy Cold
The frost is on the pumpkin
and the scarecrows taken down.
The bleakness of the winter
is coming to my town.
The fowl are flying V shapes
to warmer climes than here
for the frost is on the pumpkin.
Soon icicles will appear.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The Atheist And The Acorn
Methinks this World is oddly made,
And ev'ry thing's amiss,
A dull presuming Atheist said,
As stretch'd he lay beneath a Shade;
And instanced in this:
Behold, quoth he, that mighty thing,
A Pumpkin, large and round,
Is held but by a little String,
Which upwards cannot make it spring,
Or bear it from the Ground.
Whilst on this Oak, a Fruit so small,
So disproportion'd, grows;
That, who with Sence surveys this All,
This universal Casual Ball,
Its ill Contrivance knows.
My better Judgment wou'd have hung
That Weight upon a Tree,
And left this Mast, thus slightly strung,
'Mongst things which on the Surface sprung,
And small and feeble be.
No more the Caviller cou'd say,
Nor farther Faults descry;
For, as he upwards gazing lay,
An Acorn, loosen'd from the Stay,
Fell down upon his Eye.
Th' offended Part with Tears ran o'er,
As punish'd for the Sin:
Fool! had that Bough a Pumpkin bore,
Thy Whimseys must have work'd no more,
Nor Scull had kept them in.
poem by Anne Kingsmill Finch
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Halloween In April{for The Kids Of The Hall}
in a window, sat a pumpkin of light
to thrill the kids with fear and fright
to gaurd the candy, of halloweens eve
and prove that halloween, is no make believe
his grin was toothy, off and large
and you could see him from way, out in the yard
kids would walk by
but they wouldnt stop
there were safer places, to candy shop
but no matter where you were
in this new neighborhood
you could see that pumpkin
really good
framed by darkness of the shrill october night
his white hot candle, was the only night
but one brave kid, walking by
got too close
and could see the pumpkins eyes
and to this day
that one kid does swear
that pumpkin screamed
its halloween all year! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
there you go kids of the hall.be chill and eat burger king for lunch for me, less you live on amelia island, where our burger king is torn down, then eat mcdonalds.
poem by Chris Bowen
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Celebrate the Melon
Juicy and delicious they are
Just made for a summer treat
As they squirt inside your mouth
They’re so wonderful and sweet
Picnics aren’t complete
Until a watermelon is cut
Slices of the scrumptious fruit
Drags you from a daily rut
Party’s have a veggie plate
And nestled right within
Are melons all chunked up
Not to have them is a sin
And also is the cantaloupe
So perfect for a summer fare
Orange as a ripe pumpkin
Smoothing out unwanted cares
So let us celebrate the melon
Whether red or orange or green
Juicy and so sweet
A scrumptious summer dream!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Hallow Even
Jack found the biggest pumpkin
I had ever seen, I swear,
He wheeled it in a barrow from
The local Pumpkin Fair,
‘And what d'you think you'll do with that? '
His sister said, Colleen,
‘I'll make a Jack O'Lantern, for
Tonight, it's Halloween! '
‘I betcha don't! ' ‘I bet I do! '
They said, in childish chat,
For Jack was two years older so
He gave her tit for tat,
‘I'm gonna dress up like a witch
And put a spell on you,
That thing will end up pumpkin soup
Mixed in my witch's brew! '
‘I'll put my clothes on inside out,
Walk backwards round the fire,
My Lantern will bring back the dead,
I'm raising Jim O'Dwyer,
And he will bring the big black sow…'
But that was when she screamed,
His father cuffed him round the head
‘Stop frightening Colleen! '
O'Dwyer still hung in chains back then
Had danced his final jig,
He'd strangled little Annie Penn
Then fed her to his pig.
They hung him at the old crossroads
And staked his wicked heart,
And Colleen shut her eyes up tight
When passing, in the cart.
That night they lit the bonfire and
Then went to trick or treat,
The farmers gave them soul cakes
And their wives some home-made sweets,
But Colleen had complained all night
Had moaned and told them lies,
He said, ‘You wait ‘til we get home,
I'll raise Widow Tresize! '
Tresize had been their schoolmarm
And had caned them as she taught,
Colleen had felt it on her legs
When she and Jack had fought,
The widow ended coughing blood
All over Colleen's dress,
And Colleen screamed as she collapsed,
‘Look what you've done - Bad cess! '
She'd always been a spiteful child
And Jack would sit and brood,
Each time his father punished him
For being rough, or crude,
He'd sit up lonely in his room
And tear her dolls apart,
Imagining no sister as
He stuck pins in her heart.
The Lantern sat in pride of place
Out by the great bonfire,
Its evil eyes glowed in the dark,
Its mouth, a dreadful leer,
But Colleen threw a tantrum
Said the face made her feel sick,
She set about it with her broom
And poked it, with a stick.
The pumpkin smashed, in pieces lay
Jack sat with wounded pride,
He took her witches broom and flung it
In the fire, outside,
Another cuff around the head
His anger turned to hate,
And Colleen sniggered just once more
And sealed her morbid fate.
The barrel in the kitchen floated
Apples by the score,
The dunking was the one good thing
That Jack was waiting for,
When Colleen dunked and dunked again
Jack stood behind, and frowned,
Then called out to his father, ‘Da!
I think Colleen has drowned! '
David Lewis Paget
poem by David Lewis Paget
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Its Midnight Cinderella
Its midnight cinderella but dont you worry none
cause Im peter peter the pumpkin eater
And the partys just begun.
I guess your prince charming
Wasnt after all
cause he sure seemed different right after the ball.
I guess more than horses are turnin into rats
And by the way hes walkin
I can guess where your slippers at.
(chorus)
Its midnight cinderella time that you should know
Theres gonna be some changes in the way this story goes
Its midnight cinderella but dont you worry none
cause Im peter peter the pumkin eater
And the partys just begun.
Im gonna help you get over
Bein under that spell
Youre gonna learn to love midnight
Inside this pumpkin shell
I gotta few new magic tricks
Your godmother cant do
Ill show you what it means to
Bip, bip, bip, bip, boppity boo.
*chorus*
Im peter peter the pumpkin eater
And the party has now begun
song performed by by Garth Brooks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Robbers
Alas! I see that thrushes three
Are ravishing my old fig tree,
In whose green shade I smoked my pipe
And waited for the fruit to ripe;
From green to purple softly swell
Then drop into my lap to tell
That it is succulently sweet
And excellent to eat.
And now I see the crimson streak,
The greedy gash of yellow beak.
And look! the finches come in throng,
In wavy passage, light with song;
Of course I could scare them away,
But with a shrug: 'The heck!' I say.
I owe them something for their glee,
So let them have their spree.
For all too soon in icy air
My fig tree will be bleak and bare,
Until it wake from Winter sleep
And button buds begin to peep.
Then broad leaves come to shelter me
In luminous placidity.
Then figs will ripen with a rush
And brash will come the thrush.
But what care I though birds destroy
My fruit,--they pay me back with joy.
poem by Robert William Service
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mystic Autumn
Summer marches on again
Another season moves on in
Colourful leaves blow all round
Another new day will begin
Mystic Autumn
The harvest will reach it's peek
Pumpkin patch and warm cider
Decorated costumes and faces
Halloween and toy spiders
Mystic Autumn
poem by Suelynn Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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