Upon this ink-blurred thing to look—
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
Charles Lamb.
CCXXXIII
SONNET.
October’s gold is dim—the forests rot,
The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day
Is wrapt in damp. In mire of village-way
The hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. 5
Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,