Sonnet LI

HE FALL



Upon the left shore of the Tyrrhene sea,

Where, broken by the winds, the waves complain,

Sudden I saw that honour'd green again,

Written for whom so many a page must be:

Love, ever in my soul his flame who fed,

Drew me with memories of those tresses fair;

Whence, in a rivulet, which silent there

Through long grass stole, I fell, as one struck dead.

Lone as I was, 'mid hills of oak and fir,

I felt ashamed; to heart of gentle mould

Blushes suffice: nor needs it other spur.

'Tis well at least, breaking bad customs old,

To change from eyes to feet: from these so wet

By those if milder April should be met.



Macgregor.