Why poets love autumn. Books by Russian poets about autumn

We recall the description of the most poetic time of year in the prose of classics and modern writers

Text: Year of Literature.RF
Photo: fit4brain. com

Everyone feels autumn. Some enjoy the falling leaves and catch reflections in puddles, while others, wrapped in a scarf against the cold, watch the dull low clouds. Autumn is a time of reflection, summing up what has been lived and acquired. Perhaps there is no poet without a poem about autumn. And weWe suggest you remember how autumn is described in Russian prose. We have collected 10 fragments for you that are worth re-reading again.

1

“Often in the fall I would closely watch the falling leaves to catchthat imperceptible split second when a leaf separates from a branch and begins to fallto the ground. But I didn’t succeed for a long time. I read in old books about howfalling leaves rustle, but I have never heard this sound. If the leaves andrustled, then only on the ground, under a person’s feet. The rustle of leaves in the airseemed to me as implausible as the stories that in the springYou can hear the grass sprouting.

I was, of course, wrong. Time was needed so that the ear, dulled by the grinding of city streets, could rest and catch the very pure and precise sounds of the autumn land.”

. "Yellow light"

2

“I loved autumn so much - late autumn, when the grain has already been harvested, all the work has been completed, when gatherings have already begun in the huts, when everyone is already waiting for winter. Then everything becomes gloomier, the sky frowns with clouds, yellow leaves spread in paths along the edges of the naked forest, and the forest turns blue, turns black - especially in the evening, when the damp fog descends and the trees flash out of the fog like giants, like ugly, terrible ghosts.”

Fedor Dostoevsky. "Poor people"

3

“The days were foggy and strange: the poisonous October passed with a frozen tread; frozen dust swept through the city in brown whirlwinds; and the golden whisper of the leaves obediently lay down on the paths of the Summer Garden, and the rustling crimson humbly lay down at the feet to curl and chase at the feet of a passing pedestrian, and whisper, weaving yellow-red scatterings of words from the leaves; That sweet titmouse that had been bathing all August in the leafy wave had not bathed in the leafy wave for a long time: and the titmouse of the Summer Garden was now forlornly jumping in a black net of twigs, along the bronze fence and on the roof of Peter’s house.”

Andrey Bely. "Petersburg"

4

“It was already getting dark outside, it was drizzling, fallen leaves floated along the ditch, like a letter torn to shreds, in which summer explained why it fled to the other hemisphere.”

“The geographer drank his globe away”

5

“Since the end of September, our gardens and threshing floor have been empty, the weather, as usual, has changed dramatically. The wind tore and tore the trees for days on end, and the rains watered them from morning to night.

The liquid blue sky shone coldly and brightly in the north above the heavy lead clouds, and from behind these clouds the ridges of snowy mountains-clouds slowly floated out, the window into the blue sky closed, and the garden became deserted and boring, and the rain began to fall again... at first quietly , carefully, then more and more thickly and finally turned into a downpour with storm and darkness. A long, anxious night was coming..."

Ivan Bunin. "Antonov apples"

6

“What a drama! unhealthy, gloomy... autumn is outside, and in the fall a person, like all animals, seems to withdraw into himself.

Look, the birds are already flying away - look how the cranes fly! - she said, pointing high above the Volga to a curved line of black dots in the air. “When everything around you becomes gloomy, pale, despondent - and your soul becomes sad... Isn’t it so?”

Ivan Goncharov. "Cliff"

7

“Through the bare, brown branches of the trees, the motionless sky peacefully whitens; Here and there the last golden leaves hang on the linden trees. The damp earth is elastic underfoot; the tall dry blades of grass do not move; long threads glisten on the pale grass. The chest breathes calmly, but a strange anxiety enters the soul. You walk along the edge of the forest, you look after the dog, and meanwhile your favorite images, your favorite faces, dead and alive, come to mind, long-dormant impressions suddenly awaken; the imagination soars and flutters like a bird, and everything moves so clearly and stands before the eyes. The heart will suddenly tremble and beat, passionately rush forward, then it will irrevocably drown in memories. All life unfolds easily and quickly, like a scroll; A person owns all his past, all his feelings, his powers, his entire soul. And nothing around him bothers him - no sun, no wind, no noise..."

. "Forest and steppe"

8

“Autumn is like a book that has already been read, but has managed to be forgotten - every page is about what you know and what you vaguely remember, every page is a return to where you have already been. The nights are now filled with the sound of rain, the mornings smell of exhausted but not yet cooled earth, the sun, having lost all its decorous slowness, fussily glides along the edge of the sky, not rising above the hills - the time of the sun is gone, someone else’s times have come.”

Narine Abgaryan. "Zulali"

9

“In Russian, autumn, like a woman, is called - this is a woman who has fulfilled all her vows and therefore is calm in the clarity of pre-winter anticipation, blue-eyed to the point of pain, intent in all her hidden feelings of a widow who remembers the past, lying alone in the cold , a bed pierced with fluffy frost.”

Anatoly Kim. "Squirrel"

10

“The long autumn sunset has burned out. The last crimson stripe, narrow as a crack, glowing at the very edge of the horizon, between the gray cloud and the ground, went out. Neither the earth, nor the trees, nor the sky was visible anymore. Only overhead, the large stars trembled with their eyelashes in the middle of the black night, and the blue beam from the lighthouse rose straight up in a thin column and seemed to splash there on the heavenly dome in a liquid, foggy, light circle. Moths beat against the glass covers of the candles. The star-shaped flowers of white tobacco in the front garden smelled sharper because of the darkness and coolness.<…>

“Yes, sir... Autumn, autumn, autumn,” said the old man, looking at the candle fire and shaking his head thoughtfully. - Autumn. Now it's time for me to get ready. Oh, what a pity! Red days have just arrived. I would like to live here and live on the seashore, in silence, calmly..."

. "Garnet bracelet"

Why do poets love autumn?
This is the hundredth time I've asked a question.
Blue hidden by clouds
And the rain is a stream of unnecessary tears.

My soul is sad and anxious...
The drops are knocking all the way out the window,
Dreams of warmth are no longer possible,
Wrapped in a blanket, I watch a movie.

Tea with raspberries, cookies on the table:
Sunny greetings to July days...
The sweet taste of childhood passion,
But it has passed and is no longer miles away.

Outside the window, kids are measuring puddles
And the wet boots are excited.
The mother scolds: “You have a cold again!
You got your feet wet again, you bastard!"

But he is not ashamed, he is happy:
Conquered the seas on a brigantine,
And then there was a storm and the hold was filled...
Very good reasons!

Why do poets love autumn?
Because you can dream...
Beauty and sadness are inseparable,
It’s a pity that we are not birds and are not given to fly...

Reviews

The daily audience of the portal Stikhi.ru is about 200 thousand visitors, who in total view more than two million pages according to the traffic counter, which is located to the right of this text. Each column contains two numbers: the number of views and the number of visitors.

The seasons are a constant theme in the works of many Russian poets. Autumn occupies a special place due to its mystery and mystery. On the one hand, there is greatness, the splendor of nature, a riot of colors. On the other hand, sadness, melancholy, melancholy piercing the heart. The most unique and fruitful period in the work of A.S. Pushkin is associated with autumn. Retiring in Boldino, he created masterpieces that later conquered the world.
“...and every autumn I bloom again...”

“...The days of late autumn are usually scolded,
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Quiet beauty, humbly shining,
Of the annual times, I am glad only for her...”

“...Now it’s my time: I don’t like spring...”

"It's a sad time! The charm of the eyes
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me..."

“...and poetry awakens in me...”
All these lines emphasize the poet’s special endless love for autumn.
Also, an extraordinary tenderness for the autumn season shines through in the prose and poetry of I.A. Bunin, a true Russian patriot. You are amazed by the picturesque epithets, the brightness and clarity of the images, the strength of feelings expressed in Bunin’s poems.
“...The forest is like a painted tower
Lilac, gold, crimson,
A cheerful, motley wall
Standing above a bright clearing..."

“...Birches with yellow carvings
Glistening in the blue azure..."

"....And Autumn is a quiet widow
He enters his colorful mansion...”

"...Aerial web fabric
They shine like a silver net..."

“...Today he’s been playing all day
The last moth in the yard
And, like a white petal,
Freezes on the web...”

Reading these lines, you vividly imagine these enchanting pictures, feel the autumn smells and admire the poet’s ability to translate all the autumn splendor on paper.
Of course, one cannot ignore Tyutchev’s poetic word, one of the few highest peaks of Russian lyricism. F.I. Tyutchev created truly soulful Russian landscapes.

“...There is in the lightness of autumn evenings
Touching, mysterious charm..."

“...A gentle smile of fading,
What in a rational being we call
The divine modesty of suffering..."

"Enveloped in the drowsiness of things
The half-naked forest is sad..."

“...How fadingly cute...”
In general, in Tyutchev’s poems dedicated to Russian nature, one can feel the poet’s equal love for all seasons. I cannot single out his special attitude towards any one pore. Tyutchev with extraordinary skill, brilliance, and grace writes about young spring, sultry summer, the sorceress-winter and, of course, about the mysterious and mysterious autumn.
P.A. Vyazemsky’s autumn sounds like a contrast to the tender autumn lyrics of Pushkin, Bunin, Tyutchev.

“...Yesterday I was still moaning over the numb garden
The wind of boring autumn..."

“...languorous despondency wandered with a dull gaze
Through the groves and meadows emptying around.
The forest was maturing as a cemetery, the meadow was maturing as a cemetery..."

“...The ancient oak turned black in the forest,
Like a naked corpse..."

“...And the waters are dull, under a veil of fog,
We were dozing in a dead sleep on the silent shores...”

“...Nature is pale, with sadness in its features
I was struck by the languor of death...”
It's a completely different sight here. Reading these lines, you look forward to the end of this dreary time and the beginning of a cheerful, fresh, festive winter.
Beautiful poems about autumn by poets of the twentieth century: B.L. Pasternak - “...Autumn is a sunny palace...”, D.S. Samoilov "Red Autumn". and everywhere, as in the poetry of the 19th century, there are bright and unusual images that give different pictures and states of autumn.
I believe that the theme of native nature is an eternal poetry, because the heart of nature and the heart of man merge. The description of autumn allows poets to express the innermost, hidden, something that may have been hidden even from themselves. And the more I read the lines of the poems, the more they reveal to me.

It's a sad time! Ouch charm! Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me - I love the lush decay of nature, Forests dressed in crimson and gold... A.S. Pushkin My favorite time of year is autumn. I like both early autumn, when the first colorful leaves appear on the trees, and late autumn, when leaf fall ends and life freezes, preparing to take on a white outfit. But most of all I love golden autumn. At this time, the forest becomes more fun and elegant. The crowns of the trees are colored in all shades from green to purple. Red, yellow, brown, golden leaves fall on the ground. Cranberries are turning red in the swamps, and here and there clusters of lingonberries flash. Nature becomes lush, majestic and amazingly beautiful. For many poets, autumn was also a favorite time of year. The most famous Russian poet A.S. Pushkin in his poem “Autumn” admits his dislike for spring: The thaw is boring to me; the stench, the dirt - I’m sick in the spring... He doesn’t like summer either: Oh, red summer! I would love you, If it were not for the heat, and the dust, and mosquitoes, and flies... The poet treats winter more favorably: I am more pleased with the harsh winter, I love its snow... And only autumn is really dear to his heart: I love lush nature's withering... A.S. Pushkin loves autumn in its midst, when “the forest drops its crimson attire” and “the grove shakes off its last leaves.” He enjoys both “a rare ray of sunshine and the first frosts... “Autumn in Pushkin’s poems is solemnly sad and majestically beautiful. It is easy for the poet to rest at this wonderful time, it is easy to write, it is easy to rhyme: And the fingers ask for the pen, the pen for the paper, A minute - and the poems will flow freely. Autumn is the most fruitful time of the year in the works of A.S. Pushkin. But not only Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin addressed the theme of autumn. Such wonderful poets as F.I. dedicated their poems to this topic. Tyutchev, I.A. Bunin. Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev is usually called the “singer of nature.” He dedicated many poems, and at the same time the most joyful, the most life-affirming of all that he wrote, to spring. But there is one poem by the poet that is impossible not to remember when talking about poems dedicated to autumn: In the original autumn there is a short but wonderful time - The whole day is as if crystal, And the evenings are radiant... In this poem the poet describes the beginning of autumn, when “It’s still a long way from the first winter storms.” The riot of colors in the forest has not yet begun and a certain emptiness is felt in nature: the harvest has been harvested, the fields are empty, “the birds are no longer heard.” Only the “fine hair” of the web, shining in the sun, is noticeable. Soon, soon autumn will sparkle with colors, but for now only “clean and warm azure” pouring onto the resting field fills this void. Another Russian poet, Ivan Alekseevich Bunin, mentions blue azure in his poem “Leaf Fall”: The forest, like a painted tower, Lilac, golden, crimson, A cheerful, motley wall Stands above a bright clearing. Birches with yellow carvings Shine in the blue azure Like the towers of the 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... I.A. Bunin describes here the golden autumn. He compares the forest to a tower painted with purple, gold, and crimson colors. The crowns of birch trees are yellow carvings that especially stand out against the blue sky. This entire passage by A.I. Bunin is cheerful, encouraging, and I can’t believe that this forest will soon become bare and empty, that these are “the last moments of happiness.” Such poets as A.N. Maikov, S.A. Yesenin, A.N. Apukhtin, A.A. Fet, K.D. Balmont, N.A. Nekrasov and others dedicated their poems to the theme of autumn. They described this time of year with different shades and moods. For example, K.D. Balmont at this time: “All the trees shine in a multi-colored attire,” and A.N. Apukhtin’s autumn forest is “a grove of gold.” In A.N. Maykov’s poems, “autumn is already blushing the maples,” and “the yellow aspen tree is sounding the alarm.” K.D. Balmont writes about the upcoming autumn rains: “Soon autumn will wake up and cry sleepily.” S.A. Yesenin, saying goodbye to autumn, wrote: “The golden grove dissuaded me...” Most often, lines about autumn are written with melancholy, despondency, but N.A. Nekrasov: “Glorious autumn!” Healthy, vigorous air invigorates tired forces... “Why do I love autumn? For beauty! But not only. The annual cycle ends. At first, nature took all the time in order to awaken, blossom, bear fruit, and ripen. And finally, the time has come when she gives away everything she has accumulated. The wisdom and maturity of autumn, its beauty and the feeling of its brevity - this is what attracted and attracts people in this amazing time of year. It's just winter coming, It's just autumn ending, the violin sings a sad song to us, brings us a song of hope about summer... Natalya Ivanova REFERENCES: F.I. Tyutchev. “Essay in two volumes.” M., “Pravda”, 1980. I.A. Bunin. “Poems”. M., “Children's Literature”, 1976. Seasons. Poems by Russian poets about nature. St. Petersburg, Lenizdat, 1996 A.S. Pushkin. Works in three volumes. M., “Fiction”, 1985 S.A. Yesenin. Collected works in five volumes. M., “Fiction”, 1961. B.B. Zapartovich, E.N. Krivoruchko, L.I. Solovyova.” With love for nature." M., “Pedagogy”, 1983

That's all true, but is this a reason not to love autumn - after all, it has a special charm. It is not for nothing that Russian poets, from Pushkin to Pasternak, so often wrote about autumn, praising the beauty of golden foliage, the romance of rainy, foggy weather, and the invigorating power of cool air. AiF.ru has collected the best poems about autumn.

Alexander Pushkin

It's a sad time! charm of the eyes!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
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 threats of gray winter.
And every autumn I bloom again;
The Russian cold is good for my health;
I feel love again for the habits of life:
One by one sleep flies away, one by one hunger comes;
The blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires are boiling - I’m happy, young again,
I’m full of life again - that’s my body
(Please forgive me the unnecessary prosaicism).

State Museum-Reserve of A. S. Pushkin “Mikhailovskoye”. Pskov region. Photo: www.russianlook.com

Nikolay Nekrasov

Glorious autumn! Healthy, vigorous
The air invigorates tired forces;
Fragile ice on a chilly 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 faded,
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...

Photo: Shutterstock.com / S.Borisov

Konstantin Balmont

And again autumn with the charm of rusty leaves,
Ruddy, scarlet, yellow, gold,
The silent blue of lakes, their thick waters,
The agile whistle and takeoff of tits in the oak forests.
Camel piles of majestic clouds,
The faded azure of the cast skies,
All around, the dimension of steep features,
The ascended vault, at night in starry glory.
Who's dreaming emerald blue
Drunk in the summer hour, sad at night.
The whole past appears before him with his own eyes.
The surf beats quietly in the Milky Stream.
And I freeze, falling to the center,
Through the darkness of separation, my love, from you.

Fyodor Tyutchev

There are in the brightness of autumn evenings
Touching, mysterious charm:
The ominous shine and diversity of trees,
Crimson leaves languid, light rustle,
Misty and quiet azure
Over the sad orphaned land,
And, like a premonition of descending storms,
Gusty, cold wind at times,
Damage, exhaustion - and everything
That gentle smile of fading,
What in a rational being we call
Divine modesty of suffering.

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.

Sergey Yesenin

Quietly in the juniper thicket along the cliff.
Autumn, a red mare, scratches her mane.
Above the river bank cover
The blue clang of her horseshoes is heard.
The schema-monk-wind steps cautiously
Crumples leaves over road ledges
And kisses on the rowan bush
Red ulcers for the invisible Christ.

Painting "Golden Autumn". Ilya Ostroukhov, 1886-1887 Oil on canvas. Photo: www.russianlook.com

Ivan Bunin

The autumn wind rises in the forests,
It moves noisily through the thicket,
Dead leaves are torn off and having fun
Carries in a mad dance.
He will just freeze, fall down and listen,
Will wave again, and behind him
The forest will hum, tremble - and they will fall
Leaves rain golden.
Blows like winter, frosty blizzards,
Clouds are floating in the sky...
Let everything that is dead and weak perish
And return to dust!
Winter blizzards are the forerunners of spring,
Winter blizzards must
Bury under the cold snow
Dead by the time spring arrives.
In the dark autumn the earth takes refuge
Yellow foliage, and under it
Vegetation of shoots and herbs slumbers,
Juice of life-giving roots.
Life begins in mysterious darkness.
Its joy and destruction
Serve the imperishable and unchangeable -
The eternal beauty of Being!

Painting “On the veranda. Autumn". Stanislav Zhukovsky. 1911 Photo: www.russianlook.com

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.