Sonnet LXXXIV

WILT thou forsake me who in life's bright MayLent warmer lustre to the radiant morn;And even o'er Summer scenes by tempests torn,Shed with illusive light the dewy rayOf pensive pleasure? Wilt thou, while the dayOf saddening Autumn closes, as I mournIn languid, hopeless sorrow, far awayBend thy soft step, and never more return?—Crush'd to the earth, by bitterest anguish prest,From my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes;Thou canst not heal an heart like mine that bleeds;But, when in quiet earth that heart shall rest,Haply may'st thou one sorrowing vigil keep,Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep!