The Autumn is old, <br />The sere leaves are flying;— <br />He hath gather'd up gold, <br />And now he is dying;— <br />Old Age, begin sighing! <br />The vintage is ripe, <br />The harvest is heaping;— <br />But some that have sow'd <br />Have no riches for reaping;— <br />Poor wretch, fall a-weeping! <br />The year's in the wane, <br />There is nothing adorning, <br />The night has no eve, <br />And the day has no morning;— <br />Cold winter gives warning. <br />The rivers run chill, <br />The red sun is sinking, <br />And I am grown old, <br />And life is fast shrinking; <br />Here's enow for sad thinking!<br /><br />Thomas Hood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-iii/
