Sonnet, The Inland Woods (From, The Lost Sonnets) Poem by Peter S. Quinn

The inland woods where men sometimes dwell
To be the first to see the hanging leaves fall,
For it's his season and therefore his call
To know what inner force to him compel;
For all he knows is in his initial well
And from its beginning must pully-haul,
Be in perspective there above it all
For later on - clear thoughts fade and dispel.

Quickly before sweet hours are all away,
Night descends over beauty like a woe
And all of the earth songs becomes lost again;
Side by side the minutes will betray
For the breeze in the woods must drift and blow,
Let us pray for life that's living - amen.