Autumn clouds are flying, flying br O'er the waste of blue; br Summer flowers are dying, dying, br Late so lovely new. br Labouring wains are slowly rolling br Home with winter grain; br Holy bells are slowly tolling br Over buried men. br br Goldener light sets noon a sleeping br Like an afternoon; br Colder airs come stealing, creeping br From the misty moon; br And the leaves, of old age dying, br Earthy hues put on; br Out on every lone wind sighing br That their day is gone. br br Autumn's sun is sinking, sinking br Down to winter low; br And our hearts are thinking, thinking br Of the sleet and snow; br For our sun is slowly sliding br Down the hill of might; br And no moon is softly gliding br Up the slope of night. br br See the bare fields' pillaged prizes br Heaped in golden glooms! br See, the earth's outworn sunrises br Dream in cloudy tombs! br Darkling flowers but wait the blowing br Of a quickening wind; br And the man, through Death's door going, br Leaves old Death behind. br br Mourn not, then, clear tones that alter; br Let the gold turn gray; br Feet, though feeble, still may falter br Toward the better day! br Brother, let not weak faith linger br O'er a withered thing; br Mark how Autumn's prophet finger br Burns to hues of Spring.