Thomas Hood

Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

Gold! Gold! Gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
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The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
And now he is dying;--
Old age, begin sighing!

One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn
Stand shadowless like silence, listening
To silence, for no read more

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.

And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
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And soon
Their hushing dances languished to a stand,
Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoon,
All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned.