Sonnet LXIX: Autumn Idleness
This sunlight shames November where he grieves
In dead red leaves, and will not let him shun
The day, though bough with bough be over—run.
But with a blessing every glade receives
High salutation; while from hillock—eaves
The deer gaze calling, dappled white and dun,
As if, being foresters of old, the sun
Had marked them with the shade of forest—leaves.
Here dawn to—day unveiled her magic glass;
Here noon now gives the thirst and takes the dew;
Till eve bring rest when other good things pass.
And here the lost hours the lost hours renew
While I still lead my shadow o’er the grass,
Nor know, for longing, that which I should do.
