Poems about autumn special, like the beautiful autumn itself... Some people love it and look forward to it every year, while others can’t stand the dreary time of year. Everyone sees in her something of their own, special, unique.

I offer the same unique selection poems about autumn and yet I hope that it is a wonderful time of year for you.

Poems about autumn

Leaf fall, leaf fall,
Yellow leaves are flying.
Yellow maple, yellow beech,
Yellow circle in the sky of the sun.
Yellow yard, yellow house.
The whole earth is yellow all around.
Yellowness, yellowness,
This means that autumn is not spring.
V. Nirovich

in autumn

When the end-to-end web
Spreads threads of clear days
And under the villager's window
The distant gospel is heard more clearly,

We're not sad, scared again
The breath of near winter,
And the voice of the summer
We understand more clearly.

Tree umbrellas

Rain comes to visit us often
In September,
And the warmth goes away
In September,
Quietly the apple trees are trembling
In September,
Lost your outfit
In September,
I will cheer up the trees:
- No moping!
I'll give everyone an umbrella
In September.

N. Andrusenko

In October

The gray day is shorter than the night,
The water in the river is cold,
Frequent rain wets the ground,
The wind whistles through the wires.
Leaves fall into puddles,
The bread was put away in the bins,
Before the winter cold comes
Houses are insulated.

G. Ladonshchikov

On a clear autumn day

1
With a book under your arm
I'll go out onto the porch.
To the flying clouds
I'll raise my face.

I'll sit down
On knees
I'll put the book down.
On a clear autumn day
I'll take a quiet look.

2
According to the open book,
In a hat up to his eyebrows,
wiggling my eyebrows,
An ant walks.

He steps firmly
Blue foot,
Of course no more
Any letters.

As if in an aspen forest,
By the gray river,
I stood quietly
At the end of the line,

And I walked along the line,
Sliding on the snow,
As if to a water pump,
To the old letter "I".

The lines are like clearings,
Stretched out in a row.
It's like an autumn forest,
The letters show through.

It was as if it had flown by
It's snowier at night,
And reads the traces
Ant in the morning.

Just around the corner
In the round letter "O"
Saw the covered
Lake covered with snow.

The letter "P" was caught
On his way,
Like a door without a home
Or a hole in the house.

Door or gate
To an empty garden...
Comma leaves
They fly with the wind.

And a terrible beetle,
Already dead
Met right there
There is a letter "F" in the puddle.

Somehow getting there
To the old letter "I"
Ant
I thought
Went out to the fields.

And taking a deep breath
The entire expanse of the earth,
Knocked on the leg
The leg is blue.

3
Blue porch
Blue fence;
Behind the fence is a field,
And beyond the field there is a forest.

In field
Across the river
Fragile bridges;
Typed in italics
Bare bushes.

He's gone somewhere
In a hat up to his eyebrows,
wiggling my eyebrows,
Wise ant.

And through points
Stretching out in a row,
Like loners
They're rushing across the field...

4
The sky darkened.
Twilight and silence...
Stiff
You are sitting on the porch.

And to the cold stars
Don't raise your face
It's like it became a step
The porch itself.

And wherever you look,
Don't even glance away -
Yellow chickens
They look out of the windows.

The light from the windows
The log house turns golden.
Milky Way in the sky -
Like smoke from chimneys.

And you leave the porch,
Like an ant
Pulling with my hand
A hat to the eyebrows.

S. Kozlov

In October

In October and November
Each animal is in its own hole
Sleeps sweetly and dreams
Waiting for Spring.

Only little Katya
Taken out of bed
Wash in five minutes
They lead you to kindergarten by the hand.

It's still dark in the yard
Grandma waves out the window.

E. Zhdanova

Autumn friend in the window

Friend Autumn in the window
The leaves rustle,
She got me without asking
He will treat you to sorrow.

Yellow leaves will fall,
And the wind will whip,
And taking my hand
He will lead you around the park.

Shows all the outfits
Reminds me of winter
Whispers quietly in your ear -
There is joy in me too.

Look at the leaves!
Look what a carpet -
Every season
It has its own magical choir.

In Summer, the nightingale chirps and trills,
And Winter has blizzards and white snow,
Spring sings like a drop of a babbling stream,
And Autumn will decorate the trees and fields.

Friend Autumn in the window
The leaves rustle,
She takes me to dance
With leaves he will invite...

V. Rudenko

Storm

swooped in
Fierce squall -
The linden grove was attacked!

And they darted like chickens
The leaves are somewhat yellow.

And, spreading wings-branches,
The linden trees make a sad noise -
They got excited like hens,
Lost chickens...

A. Shibaev

In the aspen forest

In the aspen forest
The aspen trees are trembling.
The wind blows
From aspen scarves.
He's on the path
Will take off the scarves -
In the aspen forest
Autumn will come.

V. Stepanov

The forest is now brighter and quieter

The forest is now brighter and quieter,
The height is visible through the branches.
Its top is like a roof,
Burnt by autumn fire.
There is fluffy fog among the trunks,
Like smoke billows at dawn,
Leaves fly like sparks
And they burn out on the ground.

V. Orlov

Leaf walker

V. Shulzhik
Red rain falls from the sky,
The wind carries red leaves...
Leaf fall,
Change of season
Leaf walker on the river, leaf walker.
The sides of the river are freezing,
And there is nowhere to escape from the frost.
The river was covered with a fox fur coat,
But he's shaking
And can't get warm.

Mischief makers

L. Razvodova
Spun around me
The rain of leaves is mischievous.
How good he is!
Where else can you find something like this?
Without end and without beginning?
I began to dance under it,
We danced like friends -
Rain of leaves and me.

Autumn

I. Melnichuk
A flock of birds flies away,
The clouds are rushing, sobbing.
Like a thin blade of grass
The aspen tree trembles in the wind.
I tell her:
- Calm down,
Don't be afraid of the white winter.

Autumn

M. Geller
Autumn gives miracles,
And what kind!
The forests are depleted
Gold hats.
A crowd sits on a tree stump
Red honey mushrooms,
And the spider is such a trickster! –
The network is pulling somewhere.
Rain and withered grass
In the sleepy most of the night
Incomprehensible words
They mumble until the morning.

Autumn

M. Khodyakova
If the leaves on the trees have turned yellow,
If the birds have flown to a distant land,
If the sky is gloomy, if it rains,
This time of year is called autumn.

Autumn

E. Intulov
A crow screams in the sky: - Kar-r!
There's a fire in the forest, there's a fire in the forest!
And it was very simple:
Autumn has settled in!

Autumn

V. Schwartz
The tedious rain falls on the ground,
And the space drooped.
Autumn has turned away the sun,
Like a light bulb installer.

Autumn

T. Belozerov
Autumn,
autumn...
Sun
It's damp in the clouds -
Even at noon it shines
Dull and timid.
From the cold grove
In field,
to the path,
The bunny blew out -
First
Snowflake.

Autumn

I. Vinokurov
Autumn is coming
In our park
Gives autumn
Gifts for everyone:
Red beads –
Rowan,
Pink apron –
Aspen,
Yellow umbrella –
Poplars,
Fruits autumn
Gives it to us.

Autumn

I. Maznin
Every day the wind is sharper
Tearing leaves from branches in the forest...
Every day it’s early evening,
And it's still getting late.
The sun hesitates, as if
No strength to rise...
That's why morning rises above the earth
Almost lunchtime.

in autumn

A. Efimtsev
In the crane sky
The wind carries clouds.
The willow whispers to the willow:
"Autumn. It's autumn again!
Yellow shower of leaves,
The sun is below the pines.
Willow whispers to willow:
"Autumn. Autumn soon!"
Frost on the bush
He threw a white cry.
The oak whispers to the rowan tree:
"Autumn. Autumn soon!"
Spruce trees whisper to the fir trees
In the middle of the forest:
“It will soon sweep
And it will start snowing soon!”

A fox passed under a bush
And burned the leaves
Tail.
The fire climbed through the branches
And it burst into flames
Autumn forest.
N. Krasilnikov

Packed up and flew

E. Golovin
Packed up and flew
Ducks for a long journey.
Under the roots of an old spruce
A bear is making a den.
The hare dressed in white fur,
The bunny felt warm.
The squirrel carries it for a month
Store mushrooms in the hollow in reserve.
Wolves prowl in the dark night
For prey in the forests.
Between the bushes to the sleepy grouse
A fox sneaks in.
The nutcracker hides for the winter
The old moss nuts cleverly.
Wood grouse pinch the needles.
They came to us for the winter
Northern bullfinches.

The swans were flying away

V. Prikhodko
The swans were flying away
From North to South.
The swans were confused
White-white fluff.
Is it swan fluff?
It sparkles in the air,
Either through our windows
First snow
Flies.

Harvest Festival

Tatyana Bokova

Autumn decorates the parks
Multi-colored foliage.
Autumn feeds with harvest
Birds, animals and you and me.
And in the gardens and in the vegetable garden,
Both in the forest and near the water.
Prepared by nature
All kinds of fruits.
The fields are being cleaned -
People are collecting bread.
The mouse drags the grains into the hole,
To have lunch in the winter.
Dried squirrels roots,
Bees store honey.
Grandma makes jam
He puts apples in the cellar.
The harvest is born -
Collect gifts of nature!
In the cold, in the cold, in bad weather
The harvest will come in handy!

October

Berestov V.D.

Here is a maple leaf on a branch.
Now it's just like new!
All ruddy and golden.
Where are you going, leaf? Wait!

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!

Alexander Pushkin

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.

Autumn

Alexey Pleshcheev

Autumn has come
The flowers have dried up,
And they look sad
Bare bushes.

Withers and turns yellow
Grass in the meadows
It's just turning green
Winter in the fields.

A cloud covers the sky
The sun doesn't shine
The wind howls in the field,
The rain is drizzling...

The waters began to rustle
of the fast stream,
The birds have flown away
To warmer climes.

Colorful autumn

S.Marshak

Colorful autumn - evening of the year -
He smiles at me brightly.
But between me and nature
A thin glass appeared.

This whole world is at your fingertips,
But I can't go back.
I'm still with you, but in the carriage,
I'm still at home, but on the road.

Available in the initial autumn...

Fedor Tyutchev

There is in the initial autumn
A short but wonderful time -
The whole day is like crystal,
And the evenings are radiant...
The air is empty, the birds are no longer heard,
But the first winter storms are still far away
And pure and warm azure flows
To the resting field...

The fields are compressed, the groves are bare...

Sergey Yesenin

The fields are compressed, the groves are bare,
Water causes fog and dampness.
Wheel behind the blue mountains
The sun went down quietly.
The dug-up road sleeps.
Today she dreamed
Which is very, very little
All we have to do is wait for the gray winter...

Before the rain

Nikolay Nekrasov

The mournful wind drives
The clouds are flocking to the edge of heaven.
The broken spruce groans,
The dark forest whispers dully.
To a stream, pockmarked and motley,
A leaf flies after a leaf,
And a stream, dry and sharp;
It's getting cold.
Twilight falls over everything,
Hitting from all sides,
Spinning in the air screaming
A flock of jackdaws and crows...

Autumn

Konstantin Balmont

Lingonberries are ripening,
The days have become colder,
And from the bird's cry
My heart became sadder.

Flocks of birds fly away
Away, beyond the blue sea.
All the trees are shining
In a multi-colored dress.

The sun laughs less often
There is no incense in the flowers.
Autumn will wake up soon
And he will cry sleepily.

Leaf fall

Ivan Bunin

The forest is like a painted tower,
Lilac, gold, crimson,
A cheerful, motley wall
Standing above a bright clearing.

Birch trees with yellow carving
Glisten in the blue azure,
Like towers, the fir trees are darkening,
And between the maples they turn blue
Here and there through the foliage
Clearances in the sky, like a window.
The forest smells of oak and pine,
Over the summer it dried out from the sun,
And Autumn is a quiet widow
Enters his motley mansion...

in autumn

Afanasy Fet

When the end-to-end web
Spreads threads of clear days
And under the villager's window
The distant gospel is heard more clearly,

We're not sad, scared again
The breath of near winter,
And the voice of the summer
We understand more clearly.

Golden autumn

Boris Pasternak

Autumn. Fairytale palace
Open for everyone to review.
Clearings of forest roads,
Looking into the lakes.

Like at a painting exhibition:
Halls, halls, halls, halls
Elm, ash, aspen
Unprecedented in gilding.

Linden gold hoop -
Like a crown on a newlywed.
The face of a birch tree - under a veil
Bridal and transparent.

Buried land
Under leaves in ditches, holes.
In the yellow maple outbuildings,
As if in gilded frames.

Where are the trees in September
At dawn they stand in pairs,
And the sunset on their bark
Leaves an amber trail.

Where you can't step into a ravine,
So that everyone doesn't know:
It's so raging that not a single step
There is a tree leaf underfoot.

Where it sounds at the end of the alleys
Echo at a steep descent
And dawn cherry glue
Solidifies in the form of a clot.

Autumn. Ancient Corner
Old books, clothes, weapons,
Where is the treasure catalog
Flipping through the cold.

Autumn

Ivan Demyanov

On a bush-bush -
yellow leaves,
A cloud hangs in the blue, -
So it's time for autumn!

In the red leaves of the banks.
Each leaf is like a flag.
Our autumn park has become stricter.
Everything will be covered in bronze!

Autumn, it seems to me, too
Getting ready for October...
In the red leaves of the banks.
Each leaf is like a flag!

The rain is flying

Ivan Demyanov

The raindrops are flying, flying,
You won't get out of the gate.
Along the wet path
A damp fog is creeping in.

At the sad pines
And fiery rowan trees
Autumn comes and sows
Fragrant mushrooms!

Autumn

Novitskaya G.M.

I walk and feel sad alone:
Autumn is nearby somewhere.
A yellow leaf in the river
summer has drowned. I throw him a circle
your last wreath.
Only summer cannot be saved,
if the day is autumn.

Autumn

Tokmakova I.P.

The birdhouse is empty -
The birds have flown away
Leaves on the trees
I can't sit either.
All day today
They're all flying and flying...
Apparently, also to Africa
They want to fly away.

Autumn in the forest

From A. Gontar (translated by V. Berestov)

Autumn in the forest every year
Pays gold for entry.
Look at the aspen -
All dressed in gold
And she babbles:
“I’m freezing...” -
And shivering from the cold.
And the birch is happy
Yellow outfit:
“What a dress!
What a beauty!
The leaves quickly scattered
The frost came suddenly.
And the birch tree whispers:
“I’m chilling!..”
Lost weight at the oak tree too
Gilded fur coat.
The oak realized itself, but it’s too late
And he makes noise:
“I'm freezing! I’m freezing!”
Gold deceived -
Didn't save me from the cold.

Leaf fall

Yu. Korinets

Foliage flutters in the air,
All of Moscow is covered in yellow leaves.
We are sitting by the window
And we look outside.
The leaves whisper: - Let's fly away! —
and dive into a puddle.

Autumn treasure

I. Pivovarova

Yellow coins fall from a branch...
There's a whole treasure underfoot!
This is golden autumn
Gives leaves without counting,
Golden gives leaves
To you and to us
And to everyone.

Autumn leaves

I. Tokmakova

The birdhouse was empty, the birds flew away,
Leaves don't sit on trees either
All day today everyone is flying and flying...
Apparently, they also want to fly to Africa.

Autumn

L. Tatyanicheva

Wait, autumn, don't rush
Unwind your rains,
Spread your fogs
on the choppy river surface.

Slow down, autumn, show me
Yellow leaves turn for me,
Let me make sure, don't rush,
How fresh your silence is

And how bottomless the sky is blue
Over the hot flames of aspens...

A.S. Pushkin

October has already arrived - the grove is already shaking off
The last leaves from their naked branches;
The autumn chill has blown in - the road is freezing.
The stream still runs babbling behind the mill,

But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And the winter ones suffer from mad fun,
And the barking of dogs wakes up the sleeping oak forests.

Lyudmila Kuznetsova
The plums in the garden are falling,
A noble treat for wasps...
A yellow leaf took a swim in the pond
And welcomes early autumn.

He imagined himself as a ship
The wind of wanderings rocked him.
So we will swim after him
To piers unknown in life.

And we already know by heart:
In a year there will be a new summer.
Why is there universal sadness?
In every line of poetry by poets?

Is it because there are traces in the dew?
Will the rains wash away and the winters freeze?
Is it because all moments are
Fleeting and unique?

A. S. Pushkin

The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
She stripped herself naked with a sad noise.
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.

Glorious Autumn

ON THE. Nekrasov

Glorious autumn! Healthy, vigorous
The air invigorates tired forces;
Fragile ice on the icy river
It lies like melting sugar;

Near the forest, like in a soft bed,
You can get a good night's sleep - peace and space!
The leaves have not yet had time to fade,
Yellow and fresh, they lie like a carpet.

Glorious autumn! Frosty nights
Clear, quiet days...
There is no ugliness in nature! And kochi,
And moss swamps and stumps -

Everything is fine under the moonlight,
Everywhere I recognize my native Rus'...
I fly quickly on cast iron rails,
I think my thoughts...

The swallows have disappeared...

A.A. Fet

The swallows have disappeared
And yesterday dawned
All the rooks were flying
Yes, like a network, they flashed
Over there over that mountain.

Everyone sleeps in the evening,
It's dark outside.
The dry leaf falls
At night the wind gets angry
Yes, he knocks on the window.

It would be better if there was snow and a blizzard
Glad to meet you with breasts!
As if in fright
Shouting out to the south
The cranes are flying.

You will go out - involuntarily
It’s hard - at least cry!
Look across the field
Tumbleweed
Bounces like a ball.

"Indian summer"

D.B. Kedrin

Indian summer has arrived -
Days of farewell warmth.
Warmed by the late sun,
In the crack the fly came to life.

Sun! What's more beautiful in the world
After a chilly day?..
Gossamer light yarn
Wrapped around a branch.

Tomorrow the rain will pour down quickly,
The sun is obscured by a cloud.
Silver cobwebs
There are two or three days left to live.

Have pity, autumn! Give us light!
Protect from winter darkness!
Have pity on us, Indian summer:
These cobwebs are us.

Website “Mom can do anything!” I collected the most beautiful poems about autumn for children. They will create a special autumn mood, as well as introduce you to the features of nature at this time of year. These poems will not only broaden your horizons, but also show your child all the beauty of golden autumn.

These poems are suitable for memorizing or reading in kindergarten or school. They can be told at an autumn festival or simply read after a walk in the park.

Autumn
If in the trees
the leaves have turned yellow,
If the land is far away
the birds have flown away
If the sky is gloomy,
if it rains,
It's that time of year
It's called autumn.
(M. Khodyakova)

Autumn

I walk and feel sad alone:
Autumn is nearby somewhere.
A yellow leaf in the river
summer has drowned.
I throw him a circle
your last wreath.
Only summer cannot be saved,
if the day is autumn.
(G.M. Novitskaya)

In the aspen forest

In the aspen forest
The aspen trees are trembling.
The wind blows
From aspen scarves.
He's on the path
Will take off the scarves -
In the aspen forest
Autumn will come.
(V. Stepanov)

The rain is flying

The raindrops are flying, flying,
You won't get out of the gate.
Along the wet path
A damp fog creeps in. Around the sad pines
And fiery rowan trees
Autumn comes and sows
Fragrant mushrooms!
(Ivan Demyanov)

Leaf fall

Leaf fall,
Leaf fall!
Yellow birds are flying...
Maybe it's not birds
Are you getting ready for a long journey?
Maybe this
Just summer
Flying away to relax?
He will rest,
Will gain strength
And back to us
Will come back.
(I. Bursov)

Autumn treasure
Yellow coins fall from a branch...
There's a whole treasure underfoot!
This is golden autumn
Gives leaves without counting,
Golden gives leaves
To you and to us
And to everyone.
(I. Pivovarova)

Autumn tears

Cried at night
Yellow maples.
We remembered the maples,
How green they were.
From yellow birch
It was also dripping.
So, birch too
I cried...
(E. Mashkovskaya)

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!

It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And the skies are covered with wavy darkness,
And a rare ray of sunshine, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
(A.S. Pushkin)

***
Plums are scattering in the garden,
A noble treat for wasps...
A yellow leaf took a swim in the pond
And welcomes early autumn.
He imagined himself as a ship
The wind of wanderings rocked him.
So we will swim after him
To berths unknown in life. And we already know by heart:
In a year there will be a new summer.
Why is there universal sadness?
In every line of poetry by poets?
Is it because there are traces in the dew?
Will the rains wash away and the winters freeze?
Is it because all moments are
Fleeting and unique?
(Lyudmila Kuznetsova)

***
In the morning we go to the yard -
Leaves are falling like rain,
They rustle underfoot
And they fly... they fly... they fly...
Cobwebs fly by
With spiders in the middle,
And high from the ground
The cranes flew by.
Everything is flying! This must be
Our summer is flying away.

(E. Trutneva)

Autumn
Wait, autumn, don't rush
Unwind your rains,
Spread your fogs
on the choppy river surface.
Slow down, autumn, show me
Yellow leaves turn for me,
Let me make sure, don't rush,
How fresh your silence is

And how bottomless the sky is blue
Over the hot flames of the aspens...

(L. Tatyanicheva)

September
Summer is ending
Summer is ending!
And the sun doesn't shine
And he's hiding somewhere.
And the rain is first grade,
A little timid
In an oblique ruler
Lines the window.
(I. Tokmakova)

***
October has already arrived -
the grove is already shaking off
Latest sheets
from its naked branches;
The autumn chill has breathed in -
the road is freezing. The murmur is still running
behind the mill there is a stream,
But the pond was already frozen;
my neighbor is in a hurry
To the departing fields with my desire,
And they suffer in winter
from mad fun,
And wakes up the dogs barking
sleeping oak groves.
(A.S. Pushkin)

***
The fields are compressed, the groves are bare,
Water causes fog and dampness.
Wheel behind the blue mountains
The sun went down quietly.

The dug-up road sleeps.
Today she dreamed
Which is very, very little
All we have to do is wait for the gray winter... (Sergei Yesenin)

Golden autumn
Autumn. Fairytale palace
Open for everyone to review.
Clearings of forest roads,
Looking into the lakes.

Like at a painting exhibition:
Halls, halls, halls, halls
Elm, ash, aspen
Unprecedented in gilding.

Linden gold hoop -
Like a crown on a newlywed.
The face of a birch tree - under a veil
Bridal and transparent.

Buried land
Under leaves in ditches, holes.
In the yellow maple outbuildings,
As if in gilded frames.

Where are the trees in September
At dawn they stand in pairs,
And the sunset on their bark
Leaves an amber trail.

Where you can't step into a ravine,
So that everyone doesn't know:
It's so raging that not a single step
There is a tree leaf underfoot.

Where it sounds at the end of the alleys
Echo at a steep descent
And dawn cherry glue
Solidifies in the form of a clot.

Autumn. Ancient Corner
Old books, clothes, weapons,
Where is the treasure catalog
Flipping through the cold.
(Boris Pasternak)

Before the rain
The mournful wind drives
The clouds are flocking to the edge of heaven.
The broken spruce groans,
The dark forest whispers dully.

To a stream, pockmarked and motley,
A leaf flies after a leaf,
And a stream, dry and sharp;
It's getting cold.

Twilight falls over everything,
Hitting from all sides,
Spinning in the air screaming
A flock of jackdaws and crows...

(Nikolai Nekrasov)

The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
She stripped herself naked with a sad noise.

Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.

(A.S. Pushkin)

The swallows have disappeared...
The swallows have disappeared
And yesterday dawned
All the rooks were flying
Yes, like a network, they flashed
Over there over that mountain.

Everyone sleeps in the evening,
It's dark outside.
The dry leaf falls
At night the wind gets angry
Yes, he knocks on the window.

It would be better if there was snow and a blizzard
Glad to meet you with breasts!
As if in fright
Shouting out to the south
The cranes are flying.

You will go out - involuntarily
It’s hard - at least cry!
Look across the field
Tumbleweed
Bounces like a ball.
(A.A. Fet)

Leaf fall
The forest is like a painted tower,
Lilac, gold, crimson,
A cheerful, motley wall
Standing above a bright clearing.

Birch trees with yellow carving
Glisten in the blue azure,
Like towers, the fir trees are darkening,
And between the maples they turn blue
Here and there
through foliage
Clearances in the sky, like a window.

The forest smells of oak and pine,
Over the summer it dried out from the sun,
And Autumn is a quiet widow
Enters his motley mansion...
(Ivan Bunin)

Glorious Autumn
Glorious Autumn
Healthy, vigorous
The air invigorates tired forces;
Ice is not strong
on the chilly river
As if
melting sugar lies;
Near the forest
like in a soft bed,
You can get some sleep -
peace and space!
Leaves fade
haven't had time yet
They lie yellow and fresh,
like a carpet. Glorious autumn!
Frosty nights
Clear, quiet days...
There is no ugliness in nature!
And the bumps
And moss swamps and stumps -
Everything is fine under the moonlight,
Everywhere I recognize my native Rus'...
I'm flying fast
on cast iron rails,
I think my thoughts...
(N.A. Nekrasov)

Autumn has come
The flowers have dried up,
And they look sad
Bare bushes.

Withers and turns yellow
Grass in the meadows
It's just turning green
Winter in the fields.

A cloud covers the sky
The sun doesn't shine
The wind howls in the field,
The rain is drizzling..

The waters began to rustle
of the fast stream,
The birds have flown away
To warmer climes.

Analysis of the poem “Autumn has come, the flowers have dried up” by Pleshcheev

With the attribution of the poem “Autumn has come, the flowers have dried up” a whole detective story took place. Traditionally attributed to Alexei Nikolaevich Pleshcheev, it, however, did not appear in his lifetime collections. There is a version that its author is the compiler of anthologies for children, Alexey Grigorievich Baranov.

The poem was probably written in the 1860s. Its author is about forty years old at this time; he actively promotes democratic views, supports student protests, and publishes prose and poetry. By genre - landscape lyrics, by size - trochee with cross rhyme, 4 stanzas. The lyrical hero is not clearly represented; one can call him an observer. The intonation is almost monotonous and didactic, as if the teacher was edifyingly describing to bored students such a time of year as autumn. Rhymes are often verbal, closed and open. There is no sense of special poetic flight in these simple, memorable lines: the flowers have dried up, the sun does not shine, the birds have flown away. The meadows, as usual, wither and turn yellow, but the “winter crops” (winter rye and wheat, for example), on the contrary, “turn green in the fields.”

The technique of inversion (changed word order) is widely used: the bushes look, the waters rustle. Everyday epithets: fast stream, warm lands. However, the epithet “naked” is quite picturesque. At the same time, he is also a personification. There are several more personifications: the bushes are looking, the wind is howling. The ellipsis in the third stanza emphasizes the melancholy of the picture and the narrator. “A cloud covers the sky”: perhaps the only metaphor of this work. The diminutive suffix is ​​another sign that the poem is clearly from a children's anthology: birds, rain, grass. Returning to the topic of the authorship of this poem, it should be noted that, of course, it could have been lost in the poet’s papers and surfaced only after his death. But one should not ignore the fact that at the end of the 19th century, when it appears on the pages of books, there is no indication of the author. The confusion was also caused by the composer I. Khodorovsky, who by eye identified this poem as belonging to A. Pleshcheev. Later, already in Soviet times, it everywhere became one of the characteristic works for children, attributed to the pen of A. Pleshcheev.

The poem “Autumn has come, the flowers have dried” by A. Pleshcheev is a classic example of landscape poetry for preschool children.

Great ones about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.

Humboldt V.

Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Great ones about poetry:

Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.

Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.

Humboldt V.

Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.

Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"

I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.