Autumn Song by George MacDonald

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Autumn clouds are flying, flying

 O'er the waste of blue;

 Summer flowers are dying, dying,

 Late so lovely new.

 Labouring wains are slowly rolling

 Home with winter grain;

 Holy bells are slowly tolling

 Over buried men.

 Goldener light sets noon a sleeping

 Like an afternoon;

 Colder airs come stealing, creeping

 From the misty moon;

 And the leaves, of old age dying,

 Earthy hues put on;

 Out on every lone wind sighing

 That their day is gone.

 Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking

 Down to winter low;

 And our hearts are thinking, thinking

 Of the sleet and snow;

 For our sun is slowly sliding

 Down the hill of might;

 And no moon is softly gliding

 Up the slope of night.

 See the bare fields' pillaged prizes

 Heaped in golden glooms!

 See, the earth's outworn sunrises

 Dream in cloudy tombs!

 Darkling flowers but wait the blowing

 Of a quickening wind;

 And the man, through Death's door going,

 Leaves old Death behind.

 Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter;
 Let the gold turn gray;
 Feet, though feeble, still may falter
 Toward the better day!
 Brother, let not weak faith linger
 O'er a withered thing;
 Mark how Autumn's prophet finger
 Burns to hues of Spring.

http://www.poemhunter.com/george-macdonald/