IN FRENCH FIELDS.
263
Sonnet.—AUTUMN SUNSET.
The wind of autumn has its course begun!
With lamentations strange and sad adieus
Like far sea-murmurs, in the avenues
It sways the heavy branches; these have won
A tinge of evening's rich vermilion,
And balanced, shed their leaves of various hues;
Look at these nests the birds no longer use!
And look—oh, look at the departing sun!
Depart, O Sun! Light's fountain! Nature's choice!
And let thy glory like a blood-stream pure
Flow from thy wounds, but in thy death rejoice!
Thou shalt arise again! Thy hope is sure!
But for a broken heart, with potent voice
Who shall again a lease of life procure?
