A poem 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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