Nature's Child by Henry David Thoreau — Read

I am the autumnal sun, / With autumn gales my race is run;

When will the hazel put forth its flowers, / Or the grape ripen under my bowers?

When will the harvest or the hunter's moon, / Turn my midnight into mid-noon?

I am all sere and yellow, / And to my core mellow.

The mast is dropping within my woods, / The winter is lurking within my moods, / And the rustling of the withered leaf / Is the constant music of my grief.