Sonnet on the Death of a Lady

Now western clouds appear of golden hue, Inlac'd with purple streaks of living light; And distant hills look dusky azure blue, Involv'd within the glimm'ring shades of night. Woods, hamlets, plains, with sadness are o'ercast; Sol's parting rays play on the dimpling main, Amid the murmurs of the wint'ry blast, Like joyful spirits dancing in his train. The trees have lost their silken green attire, To foreign climes the herald-swallow flies, All silent drooping sit the tuneful quire, Or welcome new-born day in happier skies: These in their season soon shall glad return, But she no more, alas! for whom I mourn.