Sonnet. "I hear a voice low in the sunset woods"

I hear a voice low in the sunset woods;
  Listen, it says: "Decay, decay, decay."
  I hear it in the murmuring of the floods,
  And the wind sighs it as it flies away.
  Autumn is come; seest thou not in the skies
  The stormy light of his fierce, lurid eyes?
  Autumn is come; his brazen feet have trod,
  Withering and scorching, o'er the mossy sod.
  The fainting year sees her fresh flowery wreath
  Shrivel in his hot grasp; his burning breath,
  Dries the sweet water-springs that in the shade
  Wandering along, delicious music made.
  A flood of glory hangs upon the world,
  Summer's bright wings shining ere they are furled.