Sonnet 9

In those bright, laughing days that pierce the fall,
With sunny spears forged from the summer's glow,
The crimson leaves sail slowly on the pall
Of the warm fitful air; but there will blow

At sunset a cool breeze; then the leaves flow
In heaped-up multitudes beneath the wall;
Thus drifts of bodies to the graveyard go,
And the pinched foliage in their times recall.

That fall's warm wind is first affection's tear,
And near remembrance, with its fiery thought;
That frosty breeze is memory, all grown sere,

And consolation, curiously wrought;
That pile of sapless sheaths the hosts who died,
And those we lately added to their side.
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