Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the read more

It was Autumn, and incessant
Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves,
And, like living coals, the apples
Burned among the withering leaves.

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating read more

Art is long, and time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings read more

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,
Only the empty nests are left behind,
And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

Even cities have their graves!

Even cities have their graves!

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain.