Sonnets. Part I, XVIII

And Change, with hurried hand, has swept these scenes:The woods have fallen; across the meadow-lotThe hunter's trail and trap-path is forgot;And fire has drunk the swamps of evergreens!Yet for a moment let my fancy plantThese autumn hills again, -- the wild dove's haunt,The wild deer's walk. In golden umbrage shut,The Indian river runs, Quonecktacut!Here, but a lifetime back, where falls to-nightBehind the curtained pane a sheltered lightOn buds of rose, or vase of violetAloft upon the marble mantel set, --Here, in the forest-heart, hung blackeningThe wolf-bait on the bush beside the spring.