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The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood

Autumn.
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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!

the vintage is ripe,

the harvest is heaping; —

but some that have sow’d

have no riches for reaping; —

poor wretch, fall a-weeping!

the year’s in the wane,

there is nothing adorning,

the night has no eve,

and the day has no morning; —

cold winter gives warning.

the rivers run chill,

the red sun is sinking,

and i am grown old,

and life is fast shrinking;

here’s enow for sad thinking!

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