Autumn shakes in golden raiment,
Gashed with red;
None can ransom him by payment
From the dead.

They have shorn his strength with reaping,
Left him cold;
Now he wakes each morning weeping,
Weak and old.

And last night he sought my casement,
Came and fled;
Wailed for aid from roof to basement,
Touched my bed.

Though I cannot find his ransom,
Ere he dies;
I will pay all that I can—some
Hopes and sighs.