When the reaper lays the sickle by,
And taketh down the flail:
When all we prized, and all we planned,
Is ripe and stored at last,
And Autumn looks across the land,
And ponders on the Past.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Not the strongest Austin poem, but something about his writing, even when short, sweet and to the point, is still so enjoyable. Obviously, Autumn is old age and Winter is death.