I Hear A Voice Low In The Sunset Woods; Listen, It Says: "Decay, Decay, Decay!" I Hear It In The Murmuring Of The Floods, And The Wind Sighs It As It Flies Away. Autumn Is Come; Seest Thou Not In The Skies, The Stormy Light Of His Fierce Lurid Eyes? Autumn Is Come; His Brazen Feet Have Trod, Withering And Scorching, O'Er The Mossy Sod. The Fainting Year Sees Her Fresh Flowery Wreath Shrivel In His Hot Grasp; His Burning Breath Dries The Sweet Water-Springs That In The Shade Wandering Along, Delicious Music Made. A Flood Of Glory Hangs Upon The World, Summer'S Bright Wings Shining Ere They Are Furled.