A wind upon the hill is sighing
And up in Heaven, God is crying
Shedding quiet tears of rain
While below, the day doth wane
The wind is whispering in the trees
Muttering of a vague unease
Silent Winter will be coming
And even streams may cease their running
Why do the leaves change into gold
Before the settling of Winter’s cold?
Do they welcome Death’s approach?
(He drives, it’s said, a wintry coach)
Perhaps their deaths they cannot see
Often closed a tree’s eyes be
But is that not true of everything?
Until we’re dead, we know naught of dying
And so the summer dies away
And so, likewise, dies the day
What does it for us portend
That none can see their imminent end?
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Comments about this poem (Autumn Elegy by John Thorne )
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