Autumn

The warm sun is failing,
the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing
the pale flowers are dying,

Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year,

The chill rain is falling
the night worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling,
the thunder is knelling,

The blithe swallows are flown,
and the lizards each gone
And the earth's a deathbed,
in a shroud of leaves dead

Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year.