Classic Poem

Summer is going,
Cold wind is blowing,
Tale of the autumn—the autumn so drear,
No sower is sowing,
No mower is mowing,
Seed is sown, harvest mown, time almost sere.

Flowers are fading,
Autumn's wreath braiding,
To deck the sad burial—sad burial lone,
The bees have done lading
And finished their trading,
Honey made, cellars laid, hive almost grown.

Gray clouds are flying,
Gray shades replying,
Soon shall come mourning—mourning so pale,
And the babe shall be crying,
And the mother be sighing,
Coldly lie, coldly die, in the arms of the gale.