Sonnet Lxxiv. Autumn, Whose Fruits Endure, Though Death Is On It. Poem by Henry Alford

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.