Oh, Bring Again My Heart's Content, Thou

Now Autumn's Fire Burns Slowly Along The Woods And Day By Day The Dead Leaves Fall And Melt.

Scarcely A Tear To Shed; Hardly A Word To Say; The End Of A Summer's Day; Sweet Love Is Dead.

I Believe In Success, And In Comfort No Less I Believe All The Rest Is But Patter.

Soul's Castle Fell At One Blast Of Temptation, But Many A Worm Had Pierced The Foundation.

The Trees Are Indian Princes, But Soon They'll Turn To Ghosts; The Scanty Pears And Apples Hang Russet On The Bough; Its Autumn, Autumn, Autumn Late, 'twill Soon Be Winter Now. Robin, Robin Redbreast, O Robin Dear! And What Will This Poor Robin Do? For Pinching Days Are Near.