#title Autumn
#subtitle A Dirge
#author Percy Bysshe Shelley
#SORTtopics poetry
#date 1824
#source https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/Autumn:_A_Dirge
#lang en
#pubdate 2020-03-14T23:42:11



The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
<br>
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
<br>
And the Year
<br>
On the earth is her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
<br>
Is lying.
<br>
Come, Months, come away,
<br>
From November to May,
<br>
In your saddest array;
<br>
Follow the bier
<br>
Of the dead cold Year,
<br>
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.
<br>

<br>
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
<br>
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
<br>
For the Year;
<br>
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
<br>
To his dwelling.
<br>
Come, Months, come away;
<br>
Put on white, black and gray;
<br>
Let your light sisters play—
<br>
Ye, follow the bier
<br>
Of the dead cold Year,
<br>
And make her grave green with tear on tear.