Thomas Hood

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

Autumn III

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!