1.1.1.1. Sonnet
By W. S. Hone.
Dear to my soul is chill November's breeze--
The Wind which sighs along the lonely walls,
The Tempest's blast which bares the sapless trees,
And the low rustling of each leaf that falls.
Then, when pale Ev'ning throws her mantle o'er
The clear bright prospects of declining day,
I frequent roam, till past the midnight hour,
And to its secret influence homage pay.
Oft when the moon rides in the cloudless sky,
I climb the rocky mountain's shelvy side
And watch the fish-boats flitting sail pass by,
While roaring rolls beneath the foaming tide:
These scenes assuage the pain of inward grief,
Draw forth the silent tear, and give my heart
relief.