On the ninth day of the ninth month the trees Resplendent in their 'Joseph's Coat' grew still, The failing of the year by slow degrees Was felt in night's descent and sudden chill.
The vapours from the surface of the lake Rose billowing in white phantasmal forms Yet sorrow all this beauty could not slake Nor quell within the fierce and violent storms
That fall upon the soul in time of loss. I walk upon the paths our feet had trod, The soft pine-straw and deeply yielding moss And feel myself alone with time and God.
The wind whips through this fragile house of clay And rain like tears consecrates my day.
Poems Undated (1727)
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