"The waves of a mighty sorrow
Have whelmed the pearl of my life;
And there cometh to me no morrow
Shall solace this desolate strife.
"Gone are the last faint flashes,
Set in the sun of my years,
And over a few poor ashes
I sit in darkness and tears."—Gerald Massey.
All night the rain has fallen unceasingly; now the sun shines forth again, as though forgetting that excessive moisture has inundated the quiet uncomplaining earth. The "windy night" has not produced a "rainy morrow;" on the contrary, the world seems athirst for drink again, and is looking pale and languid because it comes not.
"Moist, bright, and green, the landscape laughs around:
Full swell the woods."
Everything is richer for the welcome drops that fell last night. "The very earth, the steamy air, is all with fragrance rife;" the flowers lift up their heads and fling their perfume broadcast upon the flying wind;
"And that same dew, which sometime within buds
Was wont to swell, like round and Orientpearls,
Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes,
Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail."
Georgie, with scarcely any heart to see their beauty, passes by them, and walks on until she reaches that part of Hythe wood that adjoins their own. As she passes them, the gentle deer raise their heads and sniff at her, and, with their wild eyes, entreat her to go by and take no notice of them.
Autumn, with his "gold hand," is
"Gilding the falling leaf,
Bringing up winter to fulfil the year,
Bearing upon his back the ripéd sheaf."