Is this old Autumn standing here, Where wind-blown fruits decay; Dressed up in limp, bedraggled flowers That Summer cast away? Within whose mist no dewdrops shine, And grass, once green, goes yellow; For whom no bird will sing or chirp, On either Ash or Willow? If this is his poor, pelted face, With dead leaves soaked in rain, Come, Winter, with your kindly frost That's almost cruelly sane; Take him, with his unwanted life, To his last sleep and end – Like the cat that cannot find a home, And the dog that has no friend. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW APOCRYPHA: BERENICE by EDGAR LEE MASTERS JOHN WINTER by LAURENCE BINYON KEEP A-PLUGGING AWAY by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR POPPIES IN THE WHEAT by HELEN MARIA HUNT FISKE JACKSON AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND by ANDREW MARVELL THE MOWER'S SONG by ANDREW MARVELL THE MORAL FABLES: THE COCK AND THE FOX by AESOP |