 | My Sonnets |  |
32
[Mourn for the leaves, the infants of the spring]
Mourn for the leaves, the infants of the spring,Whose prattling tongues made sweet the woods of May.
Ye, playmates of the breezes, oft would they
Steal from their fellows, the rough winds, to wing,
With joy, their way to your green haunts, and sing
A thousand pleasant melodies. How gay,
From the light, dreaming, rest in which ye lay,
At their low call, ye woke! how, then, would ring
The airy halls in which ye dwelt! O'erhead,
Your laughter swept the sapphire-vaulted sky,
Till the young, listening, clouds forgot to tread
Their journey, onwards, through the heavens, on high.
Ye, merry dancers of the woods, are gone,
And through the leafless trees, for you, the sad winds mourn.
November 24th, 1842.
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