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 soaked 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...JOHNNY APPLESEED by EDGAR LEE MASTERS ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 84 by PHILIP SIDNEY ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 90 by PHILIP SIDNEY THE LONG HILL by SARA TEASDALE PHILOSOPHIES by MADELEINE AARON THE LETTER; EDWARD ROWLAND SILL, DIED FEBRUARY 27, 1887 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |