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