Old Autumn

Is this old Autumn standing here,

Where wind-blown fruits decay;

Dressed up in limp, bedraggled flowers

That Summer cast away?

Within whose mist no dewdrops shine,

And grass, once green, goes yellow;

For whom no bird will sing or chirp,

On either Ash or Willow?

If this is his poor, pelted face,

With dead leaves socked in rain,

Come, Winter, with your kindly frost

That’s almost cruelly sane;

Take him, with his unwanted life,

To his last sleep and end-

Like the cat that cannot find a home,

And the dog that has no friend.