Photography: Garden of the Prince. Aranjuez. (c) Mariola Díaz-Cano
We are in autumn. They say it's the most romantic season of the year, although spring takes fame, summer stays with the sun and passion and winter is always marginalized. What I know is that it is my favorite. There are many authors who have dedicated verses to him, so today I bring a selection very personal of a few poems with autumn as the protagonist. They are from national names like Antonio Ax, Michael Hernández or Federico García Lorca and internationals like Paul Verlaine, Emily bronte and Robert Louis Stevenson, to end with the Ode to Autumn of John Keats.
Autumn dawn - Antonio Machado
A long road
between gray crags,
and some humble meadow
where black bulls graze. Brambles, weeds, jarales.
The earth is wet
by the dew drops,
and the golden avenue,
towards the bend of the river.
Behind the mountains of violet
broken the first dawn:
the shotgun on my back,
among his sharp greyhounds, walking a hunter.
Another sad autumn - Miguel Hernandez
Already autumn gathers its tulle
of litter on the ground,
and in sudden flight,
the night runs over the light.
Everything is twilight
ruling in my heart.
Today is not in heaven
not a haven of blue.
What a shame on a day without sun.
What melancholy of the moon
so pale and alone,
oh how cold and oh what pain.
Where was the heat
of the past time,
strength and youth
that I still feel beating?
Maybe he left with the warm days
of the moments that I lived by your side.
And so waiting for your return,
another sad autumn has come without you.
Autumn song - Paul Verlaine
The endless complaint
of the flimsy violin
autumnal
hurts the heart
of a languid are
lethal.
Always dreaming
and feverish when
the hour rings,
my soul reflects
the old life
and cries.
And drag a bloody
wicked wind
to my uncertain soul
here and there
same as the
dead leaf.
So so - Federico García Lorca
So so
Who?
Autumn again.
What does Autumn want?
The freshness of your temple
I do not wanna give it to you.
I want to take it away from you.
So so
Who?
Autumn again.
Fall bonfires - Robert Louis Stevenson
In the many gardens
that is all over the valley,
Of autumn bonfires
look at the smoke that comes out!
Summer is gone
with its flowers and juices,
the campfire crackles,
there are gray towers of smoke.
Sing to the seasons!
Something bright and deep!
Flowers in the summer
fall bonfires!
Fall, leaves, fall - Emily Brontë
Fall, leaves, fall; wither, flowers, fade;
lengthen the night and shorten the day;
each leaf tells me of bliss
in its graceful fall from the autumnal tree.
I'll smile when you garlands of snow
bloom where the rose should grow;
I will sing when the twilight of the night
make way for a gloomier day.
Ode to Autumn - John Keats
Season of mists and fruitful seasons,
intimate collaborator of a sun that is already maturing,
conspiring with him how to fill with fruit
and bless the vineyards that run through the fences,
bend the orchard trees with apples
and fill all fruit with deep maturity;
pumpkin puffy and plump hazelnuts
with a sweet interior; you sprout late
and numerous flowers until the bees
hot days believe endless
for the summer overflows from its slimy cells.
Who has not seen you in the midst of your goods?
Whoever seeks you must find you
sitting carelessly in a barn
gently fanned the hair,
or in a furrow not reaped sunk in deep sleep
sucking poppies, while your sickle respects
the next sheaf of intertwined flowers;
or do you stand firm like a gleaner
loaded head when crossing a stream,
or next to a winepress with a patient gaze
you see the last cider ooze hour after hour.
Where is spring with its songs?
Think no more about them but about your own music.
When the day between clouds faints blooming
and dyes the stubble with a rosy hue,
What pitiful chorus the mosquitoes complain
In the willows of the river, raised, descending
as the slight wind rekindles or dies;
and the lambs swing over the hills,
the crickets in the hedge sing, and the robin
with a sweet tiple voice he whistles in some orchard
and flocks of swallows chirp through the skies.