John Clare’s speaker openly delights in the rough, shifting weather of late autumn. A fitful gust rattles the window all day, spinning glossy elm leaves past the pane and sweeping them down the lane. There’s a real fondness for small, active scenes: twigs dancing until dusk, a sparrow chirruping on the roof as if it could fool you into thinking spring is near. Warmth seeps from the cottage smoke curling through bare trees and from the pigeons tucked snugly around their cote. Even the cock crowing on a dungheap and the distant mill sails turning over the heath feel cherished. The mood is homely and welcoming, not mournful. Falling feathers and dropping acorns bring scrambling pigs, a comical, earthy detail that keeps the poem rooted in ordinary life. Everything feels vivid and close, as if the speaker is simply naming things he loves and, in doing so, captures a November day that hums with its own rough music.
Autumn — Summary
I love the fitful gust that shakes The casement all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.
I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.
I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The cock upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going.
The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall.