He thinks of love which grows to use
“Joy as her holiest language.”
He speaks of life’s disenchantments and wearinesses as
“All that is at enmity with joy.”
When autumn closes around him, and the season makes him conscious that his leaf is sere and yellow on the bough, he exclaims
“Yet will I temperately rejoice;
Wide is the range and free the choice
Of undiscordant themes;
Which haply kindred souls may prize