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,

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.

Come months, come away,

From November to May,

In your saddest array;

Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year,