sonnet

Does warmth still linger in a dying flame?

Still burning in the hearth, though low it shrinks,

So little light and heat had to its name, 

That it might hardly be a fire at all, methinks,

But for the last few embers, glowing bright

Like stars amid a firmament of ash,

Or warriors who bravely stand and fight

Although they know well of steel's deadly clash. 

For as I watch them wink out, one by one,

I fear to be left trembling in the cold

I look out from my window, watching well

The sunset as it paints the sky aflame,

And limns the seashore and each foaming swell

Of waves once blue, now red as blushing shame. 

For I have seen the crumbling age of stone

When living and once-living things are gone

The rot has claimed them, now the rock alone

Shall lose its carvèd forms of star and swan. 

The blooms once bright with color soon shall fade,

The leaves once green and gleaming fall away.