These little presents of your tenderness, <br />Although less grand a gift than was your love, <br />Are dear to me in this October stress <br />Of wind and war and whirling leaves above. <br />They comfort my soul's Autumn, and they prove <br />How little time can do, to ban or bless, <br />How much ourselves. You willed the years should move <br />Back in their cycle. And behold, love, this! <br />--Now, therefore, let us mark this fortunate day, <br />And use it for our feast day. Every year <br />Let us, when winds are high and the leaves fall, <br />Hold in this house our love's memorial, <br />Sitting thus hand in hand. Still let me lay <br />As in the happy days, ere leaves were sere, <br />My head upon your lap and call you ``dear.''<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-autumn-sonnet/
