October. 
85 
AUTUMN. 
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 ! 
Hood. 
