4 acessos
The warm sun is failing,
the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing;
the pale flowers are dying,
Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year,
The chill rain is falling;
the night worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling,
the thunder is knelling,
The blithe swallows are flown,
and the lizards each gone
And the earth's a deathbed,
in a shroud of leaves dead
Come months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year.