Sonnet XII. Ah, trees, why fall your leaves so fast?

Thomas Lodge (1558–1625)

AH, trees, why fall your leaves so fast?

Ah rocks, where are your robes of moss?

Ah flocks, why stand you all aghast?

Trees, rocks, and flocks, what, are you pensive for my loss?

The birds, methinks, tune naught but moan,

The winds breathe naught but bitter plaint,

The beasts forsake their dens to groan;

Birds, winds, and beasts, what doth my loss your powers attaint?

Floods weep their springs above their bounds,

And echo wails to see my woe,

The robe of ruth doth clothe the grounds;

Floods, echo, grounds, why do you all these tears bestow?

The trees, the rocks, and flocks reply,

The birds, the winds, the beasts report,

Floods, echo, grounds, for sorrow cry,

We grieve since Phillis nill kind Damon’s love consort.