Sonnet (I hear a low voice in the sunset woods)

I HEAR a low voice 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.