Autumn: A Dirge
I.
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
death-bed,
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.
II.
The
chill
rain
is
falling,
the
nipped
worm
is
crawling,
The
rivers
are
swelling,
the
thunder
is
knelling
For
the
Year;
The
blithe
swallows
are
flown,
and
the
lizards
each
gone
To
his
dwelling;
Come,
Months,
come
away;
Put
on
white,
black,
and
gray;
Let
your
light
sisters
play--
Ye,
follow
the
bier
Of
the
dead
cold
Year,
And
make
her
grave
green
with
tear
on
tear.
