In autumn, when the leaves are brown,
Take pen and ink, and write it down.
Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;
Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's pleasure.
Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace,
Ah! who shall hide us from the winter's face?
Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease,
And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.
From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord, deliver us!
autumn is a clocks changing
and dark evening after school
autumn is shiny conkers
and seeing who finds most
autumn is leaves flikering down
into heaps on the roadsides
autumn is birds flying south
to escape the snow
autumn is football
and our team ready to win
autumn is deed leaves and windy walkes
bonfires and hot sausages
Once again the poems were found on the Poemhunter site - a searchable place with half a million poems, songs and quotations.
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