There is no season that makes me think of Emily Brontë’s work more than autumn. Even though she has written poems that are quite joyful, I prefer the ones where she explores and contemplates deep and complex emotions. In this poem, she describes the change of seasons. Not with sadness, because the days are shortening and flowers are dying, but with a kind of happiness. And I really get that.
Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.
I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.