The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, 

 The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; 



And the year 

 On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead 



Is lying. 



Come, months, come away, 

 From November to May, 

 In your saddest array; 

 Follow the bier 

 Of the dead cold year, 

 And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. 



SHELLEY: Autumn, A Dirge. 



