Sonnet LXXXIV. To The Muse

WILT thou forsake me who in life's bright May
Lent warmer lustre to the radiant morn;
And even o'er summer scenes by tempests torn,
Shed with illusive light the dewy ray
Of pensive pleasure? Wilt thou, while the day
Of saddening autumn closes, as I mourn
In languid, hopeless sorrow, far away
Bend thy soft step, and never more return?--
Crush'd to the earth, by bitterest anguish press'd,
From my faint eyes thy graceful form recedes;
Thou canst not heal a heart like mine that bleeds;
But, when in quiet earth that heart shall rest,
Haply mayst thou one sorrowing vigil keep,
Where Pity and Remembrance bend and weep!