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Thomas Hood - Autumn III
Work rating: Low

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