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Poem by Thomas Nashe


Autumn


Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure;
Gone is our sport, fled is poor Croydon's pleasure.
Short days, sharp days, long nights come on apace,
Ah, who shall hide us from the winter's face?
Cold doth increase, the sickness will not cease,
And here we lie, God knows, with little ease.
From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord deliver us!

London doth mourn, Lambeth is quite forlorn;
Trades cry, Woe worth that ever they were born.
The want of term is town and city's harm;
Close chambers we do want to keep us warm.
Long banished must we live from our friends;
This low-built house will bring us to our ends.
From winter, plague, and pestilence, good Lord deliver us! 



Thomas Nashe

Poem Theme: Autumn

Thomas Nashe's other poems:
  1. To the Right Honorable the Lord S.
  2. Fair Summer Droops
  3. Spring
  4. In Time of Pestilence


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Samuel Johnson Autumn ("Alas! with swift and silent pace")
  • John Clare Autumn ("The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still")
  • William Morris Autumn ("Laden Autumn here I stand")
  • Anna Barbauld Autumn ("Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush")
  • Philip Bailey Autumn ("Tis Autumn--and the winds are high")
  • Francis Ledwidge Autumn ("Now leafy winds are blowing cold")
  • William Watson Autumn ("Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung")
  • Walter Landor Autumn ("Mild is the parting year, and sweet")
  • Alexander Posey Autumn ("IN the dreamy silence")
  • Lydia Sigourney Autumn ("Tree! why hast thou doffed thy mantle of green")
  • Ada Cambridge (Cross) Autumn ("So stillЧso still! Only the endless sighing")
  • Alice Bartlett Autumn ("The blaze of autumn scorches now the hill")

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