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