Sonnet Lxxiv. Autumn, Whose Fruits Endure, Though Death Is On It.

Autumn should be a youth wasted and wan, A flush upon his cheek, and in his eye Unhealthful fire; and there should sit hard by She that best loves him, ever and anon Wistfully looking, and for pleasures gone (So would I paint her) she should seem to sigh; The while some slender task her fingers ply, Veiling the dread that trusts him not alone. But he, high--wrapt in divine poesy, Unrolls the treasures of creative art, Spells framing for the world's unheeding heart; His very eye should speak, and you should see That love will brighten as his frame decays, And song not fail but with his failing days.