The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing, <br />The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, <br /> And the Year <br />On the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, <br /> Is lying. <br /> Come, Months, come away, <br /> From November to May, <br /> In your saddest array; <br /> Follow the bier <br /> Of the dead cold Year, <br />And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. <br /> <br />The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling, <br />The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling <br /> For the Year; <br />The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone <br /> To his dwelling. <br /> Come, Months, come away; <br /> Put on white, black and gray; <br /> Let your light sisters play-- <br /> Ye, follow the bier <br /> Of the dead cold Year, <br />And make her grave green with tear on tear.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-a-dirge/
