Autumn Song

Autumn clouds are flying, flying         O'er the waste of blue;         Summer flowers are dying, dying,         Late so lovely new.         Labouring wains are slowly rolling         Home with winter grain;         Holy bells are slowly tolling         Over buried men.         Goldener light sets noon a sleeping         Like an afternoon;         Colder airs come stealing, creeping         From the misty moon;         And the leaves, of old age dying,         Earthy hues put on;         Out on every lone wind sighing         That their day is gone.         Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking         Down to winter low;         And our hearts are thinking, thinking         Of the sleet and snow;         For our sun is slowly sliding         Down the hill of might;         And no moon is softly gliding         Up the slope of night.         See the bare fields' pillaged prizes         Heaped in golden glooms!         See, the earth's outworn sunrises         Dream in cloudy tombs!         Darkling flowers but wait the blowing         Of a quickening wind;         And the man, through Death's door going,         Leaves old Death behind.         Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;         Let the gold turn gray;         Feet, though feeble, still may falter         Toward the better day!         Brother, let not weak faith linger         O'er a withered thing;         Mark how Autumn's prophet finger         Burns to hues of Spring.