Here you will find the Poem Autumn III of poet Thomas Hood
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!