SONNET III.
A mingled sea of color here is rolled
Across the billowy upland filmed with smoke,
Whose groves of yellow beech and crimson oak
Stand forth, a goodly prospect to behold;
Nor with less glory do the mountains fold
Their giant forms in Autumn's hazy cloak,
While up their sides the distant wood has broke
In long receding waves of ruddy gold.
Could'st thou whose beauty doth my heart ensnare,
Give to this lovely scene an added grace,
I should not here perforce enjoy alone
These blended hues, which Autumn, in despair
At not out-vieing thy enchanting face,
From his broad pallet o'er the woods has thrown.