Thomas Hood on Autumn

“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 year's in the wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!”

“I saw old Autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;— Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.”