Lord Alfred Douglas
I have been through the woods to-day
And the leaves were falling,
Summer had crept away,
And the birds were not calling.
And the bracken was like yellow gold
That comes too late,
When the heart is sad and old,
And death at the gate.
Ah, mournful Autumn ! Sad,
Slow death that comes at last,
I am mad for a yesterday, mad !
I am sick for a year that is past!
Though the sun be like blood in the sky
He is cold as the lips of hate,
And he fires the sere leaves as they lie
On their bed of earth, too late.
They are dead, and the bare trees weep
Not loud as a mortal weeping,
But as sorrow that sighs in sleep,
And as grief that is still in sleeping.
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Comments about this poem (Autumn Days by Lord Alfred Douglas )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
- Michael P. McParland
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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