Autumn comes on fiercely when love dies aborning;
The harvest goddess is colder in the morning;
Though warm enough midday, nights bring us her warning:
Store harvest for winter.
But let us not for summer be ever mourning,
Nor the flowers grieve when bushes are now thorning;
Much is to be had from the fruiting and corning -
Be steady, no sprinter.
Nor should we the long, cold, dark nights to be scorning,
For the trees will soon find frost and snow their adorning,
And these replaced with buds and blossoms in horning;
Change is but a splinter.
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