Autumn clouds are flying, flying <br />O'er the waste of blue; <br />Summer flowers are dying, dying, <br />Late so lovely new. <br />Labouring wains are slowly rolling <br />Home with winter grain; <br />Holy bells are slowly tolling <br />Over buried men. <br /> <br />Goldener light sets noon a sleeping <br />Like an afternoon; <br />Colder airs come stealing, creeping <br />From the misty moon; <br />And the leaves, of old age dying, <br />Earthy hues put on; <br />Out on every lone wind sighing <br />That their day is gone. <br /> <br />Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking <br />Down to winter low; <br />And our hearts are thinking, thinking <br />Of the sleet and snow; <br />For our sun is slowly sliding <br />Down the hill of might; <br />And no moon is softly gliding <br />Up the slope of night. <br /> <br />See the bare fields' pillaged prizes <br />Heaped in golden glooms! <br />See, the earth's outworn sunrises <br />Dream in cloudy tombs! <br />Darkling flowers but wait the blowing <br />Of a quickening wind; <br />And the man, through Death's door going, <br />Leaves old Death behind. <br /> <br />Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; <br />Let the gold turn gray; <br />Feet, though feeble, still may falter <br />Toward the better day! <br />Brother, let not weak faith linger <br />O'er a withered thing; <br />Mark how Autumn's prophet finger <br />Burns to hues of Spring.<br /><br />George MacDonald<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-song-8/
