Autumn (The Autumn is old...)
By Thomas Hood
The Autumn is old,
The sere leaves are flying; --
He hath gathered up gold,
And now he is dying; --
Old age, begin sighing!
The vintage is ripe,
The harvest is heaping; --
But some that have sowed
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!
Source Book
The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hood
by Thomas Hood
Copyright 1861
Published by Boston: Crosby, Nichols, Lee and Company
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Autumn (The Autumn is old...)
by Thomas Hood
