Sonnet LXXXVII

THE blasts of Autumn as they scatter roundThe faded foliage of another year,And muttering many a sad and solemn sound,Drive the pale fragments o'er the stubble sere,Are well attuned to my dejected mood;(Ah! better far than airs that breathe of Spring!)While the high rooks, that hoarsely clamouringSeek in black phalanx the half-leafless wood,I rather hear, than that enraptured layHarmonious, and of Love and Pleasure born,Which from the golden furze, or flowering thornAwakes the Shepherd in the ides of May;Nature delights me most when most she mourns,For never more to me the Spring of Hope returns!