Autumn Iii Poem by Thomas Hood
Autumn Iii
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!
The rivers run chill, The red sun is sinking, And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking; - I felt it inside..a very nice poem..!
you have touched my heart...Thomas I remember, I remember...
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5/3/2024 4:44:33 PM # 1.0.0.1119
End of autumn dry leaves Old man with tons of gold now weeping, sighing, dying His end near, no happiness night with no evening day with no morning cold winter says: river water very cold red sun no more. I very old my life no more Sad sad my mind.