But now these things to man are dear:
The mighty sun, that on the sky-line sways
In glory; and the days in warm career,
The glow of earth beneath his feet ablaze.
When tearful autumn roves across the land,
And everywhere a parlous mist is poured,
And every day a purgatory seems—
We gladly clutch the wine-cup in our hand;
For there the ardour of the sun is stored,
Heat of July and bliss of summer dreams.
3. OCTOBER SONNET.
Only an anguished melody still flows
From earth where hazes spread a veiling net. . .
In every nook the faded beauty stows
Her faded blooms, lest springtide she forget.
But the desire, as ere to gladden, glows
Within; unchilled her inmost ardour yet,
And gaudy sashes round her waist she throws
And asters in her tresses she has set.
Fain would she laugh as in her bygone days—
But 'mid her wrinkles laughter takes to flight
And from them only pity, pity cries. . .
Divining this, perchance she has surmise:
A hundred tears each morn her garb displays
Shed in the anguish of her sleepless night.
