Autumn (The autumn skies are flushed with gold...)
by Thomas Hood
The autumn skies are flushed with gold,
And fair and bright the rivers run;
These are but streams of winter cold,
And painted mists that quench the sun.
In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
In secret boughs no bird can shroud;
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.
'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valleys fall;
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.
Source:The Poetical Works Of Thomas Hood
Boston: Crosby, Nichols, Lee and Company