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!
