Autumn’s Dirge

Summer has gone I know not where,
The fitful moaning winds declare.
The dark eerie gables groan
While withered men await the morn
Or death or sleep or perchance, a spring forlorn.
For what is death but an after dinner sleep
Whithout a spring.
Autumn's joke is life's darkest dread,
Never will you know that you are dead.

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