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George MacDonald - Autumn Song
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Autumn clouds are flying, flying
O`er the waste of blue;
Summer flowers are dying, dying,
Late so lovely new.
Labouring wains are slowly rolling
Home with winter grain;
Holy bells are slowly tolling
Over buried men.

Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
Like an afternoon;
Colder airs come stealing, creeping
From the misty moon;
And the leaves, of old age dying,
Earthy hues put on;
Out on every lone wind sighing
That their day is gone.

Autumn`s sun is sinking, sinking
Down to winter low;
And our hearts are thinking, thinking
Of the sleet and snow;
For our sun is slowly sliding
Down the hill of might;
And no moon is softly gliding
Up the slope of night.

See the bare fields` pillaged prizes
Heaped in golden glooms!
See, the earth`s outworn sunrises
Dream in cloudy tombs!
Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
Of a quickening wind;
And the man, through Death`s door going,
Leaves old Death behind.

Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
Let the gold turn gray;
Feet, though feeble, still may falter
Toward the better day!
Brother, let not weak faith linger
O`er a withered thing;
Mark how Autumn`s prophet finger
Burns to hues of Spring.
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