Thomas Hood (Томас Гуд (Худ))

Autumn (The Autumn is old)

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!

1. The Boy at the Nore
2. To Fancy
3. Written in Keats' “Endymion”
4. To My Daughter on Her Birthday
5. The Two Peacocks of Bedfont

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 2121

Последние стихотворения

To English version