Fall, 1843

Now Fall is climbing the trees, browning their chests with rust, killing their leaves off by the baleful with each shrivelling hour that I tally as the sun is overthrown and, crownless, descends into the impregnable fortress of the horizon.

And the days do not fulfill this dissatisfied Soul.

I require for the tide of Light to turn, the Sun to burst forth from Her birthplace again, disproving the faithless as Her glory, spilling forth upon all mankind, refreshes the Lovers, lost, with that Vow of Reunion.

But it appears I shall have to bide my Time: for Love is a ghost in the Heart, whom I pray I do not forget whilst all things perish in despair, the World in tearful rapture gazing upon the proof of the Stars, the praise of the Moon, and the tragedy of all else lying as dead in Their expectant midst.