 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
88
DENIS BROWNE TO MARY HOLT.
(1780.)
Now Winter traverses the woodlands, love,
And strews his crimson berries on the snow;
The dormouse sleeps, and every wind-puff now
Gives, as it goes, the dying year a shove.
And strews his crimson berries on the snow;
The dormouse sleeps, and every wind-puff now
Gives, as it goes, the dying year a shove.
And now no longer coos the forest dove
Upon her nest of sticks, where sweet nuts grow;
And spots of sunshine on the moss below
No longer dance, as dance the leaves above.
Upon her nest of sticks, where sweet nuts grow;
And spots of sunshine on the moss below
No longer dance, as dance the leaves above.
For Time has laid a tremble on my hand,
And strewn his sifted snow upon my head;
And lo! my back has bent at his command;
And strewn his sifted snow upon my head;
And lo! my back has bent at his command;
And thou that wast the sunshine, thou art dead—
Dead years ago, beneath his wintry wand—
Dead as the rustling leaves on which I tread.
Dead years ago, beneath his wintry wand—
Dead as the rustling leaves on which I tread.
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