The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!
Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.
Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
Apothegms form a short cut to much knowledge.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled!