Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Song for Autumn
A Song for Autumn.
i.
'Tis a fitting time for hope to die,
When all is dying round us;
When the flowers in withered, fragrance lie
Whose wreaths so lately crowned us.
'Tis a fitting time for hope to die,
When all is dying round us;
When the flowers in withered, fragrance lie
Whose wreaths so lately crowned us.
ii.
'Tis a fitting time for sorrow's shade
To cast its darkness o'er ns,
When all in heaven and earth doth fade,
And look so blank before us.
'Tis a fitting time for sorrow's shade
To cast its darkness o'er ns,
When all in heaven and earth doth fade,
And look so blank before us.
iii.
The skies are grey, the winds are chill,
The earth is sad and dreary;
And human bosoms feel the ill,
And sigh till they are weary.
The skies are grey, the winds are chill,
The earth is sad and dreary;
And human bosoms feel the ill,
And sigh till they are weary.
iv.
All that is gay and bright and fair,
In Nature's works is sleeping;
Then why should we escape from care,
When 'tis the time for weeping?
All that is gay and bright and fair,
In Nature's works is sleeping;
Then why should we escape from care,
When 'tis the time for weeping?