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! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE BLACK RUNNER by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: LILLI ALM by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY CYNTHIA SLEEPING IN A GARDEN; A SONNET by PHILIP AYRES CRICKET ON THE HEARTH by PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER EPIGRAM ON A ROPE-MAKER HANGED by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) EPITAPH ON MR. FRANCIS LEE OF THE TEMPLE, GENT. by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |