Autumn.
By Thomas Hood
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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"The Autumn is old,..."
"Autumn." is a quintessential example of Thomas Hood's signature style... ### Why We Love This Line At Linespedia, we believe that poetry is the ultimate sanctuary for the soul...