Autumn: A Dirge

The Warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,             And the year On the earth her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead,             Is lying.   Come, months, come away,   From November to May,   In your saddest array;   Follow the bier   Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre. The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling             For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone             To his dwelling;   Come, months, come away,   Put on white, black, and gray;   Let your light sisters play—   Ye, follow the bier   Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.