Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face;
Young read more

No spring, nor summer beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnal face;
Young beauties force our love, and that's a rape;
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot scape.

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown read more

The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.

Third act of the eternal play!
In poster-like emblazonries
"Autumn once more begins today"--
read more

Third act of the eternal play!
In poster-like emblazonries
"Autumn once more begins today"--
'Tis written all across the trees
In yellow like Chinese.

This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
read more

This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be overrun.
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation.

A breath, whence no man knows,
Swaying the grating weeds, it blows;
It comes, it grieves, it read more

A breath, whence no man knows,
Swaying the grating weeds, it blows;
It comes, it grieves, it goes.
Once it rocked the summer rose.

O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the read more

O, it sets my heart a clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes read more

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

The Autumn is old;
The sere leaves are flying;
He hath gather'd up gold,
read more

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