The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, by 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!

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55