Thomas Hood

(1789-1845 / London / England)

Autumn Iii - Poem by Thomas Hood

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!

Comments about Autumn Iii by Thomas Hood

  • Gold Star - 7,730 Points Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi (8/18/2013 10:39:00 PM)

    you have touched my heart...Thomas I remember, I remember... (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, April 5, 2010

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