Poems about autumn for elementary school
Autumn
Autumn. Our entire poor garden is crumbling, Yellowed leaves are flying in the wind; Only in the distance they show off, there, at the bottom of the valleys, the bright red brushes of withering rowan trees.
My heart is happy and sad, Silently I warm and squeeze your little hands, Looking into your eyes, I silently shed tears, I don’t know how to express how much I love you.
A. Tolstoy
The swallows disappeared, And yesterday the dawn All the rooks flew Yes, like a net, they flashed over that mountain.
In the evening everyone sleeps, It’s dark outside. The dry leaf falls, At night the wind gets angry and knocks on the window.
It would be better if there was snow and a blizzard, glad to meet you with your breasts! As if in fright, shouting, the Cranes fly to the south.
If you go out - it’s hard - at least cry! Look, tumbleweeds are jumping across the field like a ball.
A. Fet
Autumn
Autumn has come, the flowers have dried up, and the bare bushes look sad.
The grass in the meadows withers and turns yellow, Only the winter in the fields turns green.
A cloud covers the sky, the sun does not shine, the wind howls in the field, the rain drizzles...
The waters of the Fast Stream rustled, the birds flew away to warmer lands.
A. Pleshcheev
Leaf fall
The forest, like a painted tower, purple, golden, crimson, stands like a cheerful, motley wall above a bright clearing.
Birches with yellow carvings Shine in the blue azure, Like towers, fir trees darken, And between the maples they turn blue Here and there in the through foliage Clearances in the sky, like windows. The forest smells of oak and pine, Over the summer it has dried up from the sun, And Autumn, a quiet widow, Enters its motley mansion...
Ivan Bunin
Before the rain
A mournful wind drives a flock of clouds to the edge of heaven. The broken spruce groans, The dark forest whispers dully. On a stream, pockmarked and motley, A leaf flies behind a leaf, And in a stream, dry and sharp; It's getting cold. Twilight falls over everything, Having swooped in from all sides, A flock of jackdaws and crows are circling in the air, screaming...
N. Nekrasov
Uncompressed strip
Late fall. The rooks have flown away, the forest is bare, the fields are empty,
Only one strip is not compressed... It makes me sad.
It seems that the ears of corn are whispering to each other: “We are bored of listening to the autumn blizzard,
It's boring to bend down to the ground, bathing fat grains in dust!
Every night we are ravaged by the villages of every passing voracious bird,
The hare tramples us, and the storm beats us... Where is our plowman? what else is waiting?
Or are we worse born than others? Or did they bloom and spike unharmoniously?
No! We are no worse than others - and long ago the grain filled and ripened in us.
Didn’t he plow and sow for the same reason, so that the autumn wind would scatter us?..”
The wind brings them a sad answer: “Your plowman has no urine.”
He knew why he plowed and sowed, but he started the work beyond his strength.
The poor guy is feeling bad - he doesn’t eat or drink, the worm is sucking his aching heart,
The hands that made these furrows dried up into slivers and hung like whips.
The eyes dimmed and the voice disappeared, which sang a mournful song,
As if leaning on a plow with his hand, the Plowman walked thoughtfully in a stripe.
Nikolay Nekrasov
Autumn
The lingonberries are ripening, the days have become colder, and the bird's cry makes my heart sadder.
Flocks of birds fly away, beyond the blue sea. All the trees shine in a multi-colored dress.
The sun laughs less often, There is no incense in the flowers. Soon Autumn will wake up and cry awake.
Konstantin Balmont
The fields are compressed, the groves are bare. The fields are compressed, the groves are bare. There is fog and dampness from the water. The sun quietly rolled down like a wheel behind the blue mountains.
The dug-up road sleeps. Today she dreamed that there was very, very little time left to wait for the gray winter.
Oh, and I myself, in the ringing thicket, saw yesterday in the fog: The red moon as a foal Harnessed to our sleigh.
S. Yesenin
September
The rain is pouring down large peas, the wind is breaking, and the distance is unclean. The tousled poplar closes with the silvery underside of the leaf. But look: through the hole of the cloud, Like through an arch of stone slabs, Into this kingdom of fog and darkness The first ray, breaking through, flies. This means that the distance is not forever curtained by Clouds, and, therefore, it is not in vain that, like a girl, a nut, flaring up, Shined at the end of September. Now, painter, grab brush by brush, and on a canvas, golden like fire and garnet, draw this girl for me. Draw, like a tree, an unsteady young princess in a crown with a restlessly sliding smile on a tear-stained young face.
N. Zabolotsky
Autumn seamstress
So that the little earth can spend the winter without hassle, Autumn sews a patchwork blanket for her. Carefully sews the leaf to the leaf, adjusts the stitch with a pine needle. Leaves to choose from - any will come in handy. Here the purple one lies next to the crimson one. Although golden is very much to the seamstress’s taste, brown or even spotted will do. They are carefully held together by a thread of spider web. You won't find a more beautiful picture than this.
Tatiana Gusarova
Autumn
The leaves in the field have turned yellow, and are spinning and flying; Only in the forest do drooping spruce trees preserve the gloomy greenery. Under the overhanging rock, among the flowers, the Plowman sometimes does not like to rest from his midday labors. The brave beast, involuntarily, is in a hurry to hide somewhere. At night the moon is dim, and the field through the fog only shines silver.
M.Yu. Lermontov
Autumn
A golden leaf is already covering the wet ground in the forest... I boldly trample with my foot the beauty of the spring forest.
Cheeks burn from the cold; I love to run in the forest, hear the branches crack, rake the leaves with my feet!
I don’t have the same joys here! The forest has stripped itself of its secret: The last nut has been plucked, The last flower has been tied;
The moss is not raised, not blown up by a pile of curly milk mushrooms; There are no purple lingonberry clusters hanging near the stump;
For a long time on the leaves, the frost of the night lies, and through the forest the clarity of the transparent skies somehow looks coldly...
The leaves rustle underfoot; Death spreads its harvest... Only I am cheerful in soul And, like a madman, I sing!
I know, it was not for nothing that I picked early snowdrops among the mosses; Right down to the autumn flowers. Every flower I have seen.
What the soul told them, What they told it - I will remember, breathing with happiness, On winter nights and days!
The leaves rustle underfoot... Death lays down its harvest! Only I am cheerful at heart - And I sing like crazy!
Apollo Maykov
In the forest
Leaves swirl over the path. The forest is transparent and crimson... It’s good to wander with a basket along the edges and clearings!
We walk, and a golden rustle is heard under our feet. It smells like wet mushrooms, smells like forest freshness.
And behind the foggy haze, the river shines in the distance. Autumn spread yellow silks in the clearings.
Through the needles a cheerful ray penetrated into the thicket of the spruce forest. Good for wet trees Remove the elastic boletus!
On the hillocks, the beautiful Scarlet maples burst into flames... How many saffron milk caps, honey fungus We can collect in the grove in a day!
Autumn is walking through the forests. There is no more beautiful time than this... And in baskets we carry away generous gifts from the forest.
A. Balonsky
The golden foliage began to swirl. The golden foliage began to swirl in the pinkish water of the pond, like a light flock of butterflies. It flies breathlessly towards a star.
Today I am in love with this evening, The yellowing valley is close to my heart. The boy-wind, up to his shoulders, stripped his hem on the birch tree.
There is coolness both in the soul and in the valley, The blue twilight is like a flock of sheep, Behind the gate of a silent garden the bell will ring and die.
I have never before listened so thriftily to rational flesh, It would be nice, like willow branches, to capsize into the pink waters.
It would be nice, smiling at the haystack, to chew hay with the muzzle of the moon... Where are you, where are you, my quiet joy, loving everything, wishing for nothing?
S. Yesenin
Glorious Autumn
Glorious autumn! Healthy, vigorous Air invigorates tired forces; The fragile ice lies on the chilly river, like melting sugar;
Near the forest, as if in a soft bed, you can sleep well - peace and space! The leaves have not yet had time to fade; they lie yellow and fresh, 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, I recognize my native Rus' everywhere... I quickly fly along cast-iron rails, I think my thoughts...
N. Nekrasov
