The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!
I saw old autumn in the misty morn Stand shadowless like silence, listening To silence.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!