Let the autumn flowers fade,
their time is now past due;
rain comes down on its parade,
this heart will not be sad or rue.
Time comes round for every season,
love and hate and sometimes pain;
not every thing has rhyme or reason
but everything comes round again.
Say goodbye to passing fancies,
say so long to passing fads;
bury them along with pansies,
drown them 'neath the lily pads.
Give your love to things that stay,
give your heart to music fine;
forget all things that went away,
drink the dregs of summer's wine.
Say a prayer for those that fail,
expectations lost of dreams;
no promises of future mail,
true love is not the thing it seems.