Autumn Song

    Autumn clouds are flying, flying
    O'er the waste of blue;
    Summer flowers are dying, dying,
    Late so lovely new.
    Labouring wains are slowly rolling
    Home with winter grain;
    Holy bells are slowly tolling
    Over buried men.

    Goldener light sets noon a sleeping
    Like an afternoon;
    Colder airs come stealing, creeping
    From the misty moon;
    And the leaves, of old age dying,
    Earthy hues put on;
    Out on every lone wind sighing
    That their day is gone.

    Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking
    Down to winter low;
    And our hearts are thinking, thinking
    Of the sleet and snow;
    For our sun is slowly sliding
    Down the hill of might;
    And no moon is softly gliding
    Up the slope of night.

    See the bare fields' pillaged prizes
    Heaped in golden glooms!
    See, the earth's outworn sunrises
    Dream in cloudy tombs!
    Darkling flowers but wait the blowing
    Of a quickening wind;
    And the man, through Death's door going,
    Leaves old Death behind.

    Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
    Let the gold turn gray;
    Feet, though feeble, still may falter
    Toward the better day!
    Brother, let not weak faith linger
    O'er a withered thing;
    Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
    Burns to hues of Spring.