Sonnet LXXIV. Autumn, Whose Fruits Endure, Though Death Is On It.

Autumn should be a youth wasted and wan,
  A flush upon his cheek, and in his eye
  Unhealthful fire; and there should sit hard by
  She that best loves him, ever and anon
  Wistfully looking, and for pleasures gone
  (So would I paint her) she should seem to sigh;
  The while some slender task her fingers ply,
  Veiling the dread that trusts him not alone.
  But he, high--wrapt in divine poesy,
  Unrolls the treasures of creative art,
  Spells framing for the world's unheeding heart;
  His very eye should speak, and you should see
  That love will brighten as his frame decays,
  And song not fail but with his failing days.