That time of year thou mayst in me
behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do
hang
Upon those boughs which shake against
the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet
birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such
day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take
away,
Death's second self, that seals up all
in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such
fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was
nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy
love more strong,
To love that well which thou must
leave ere long.
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Shakespeare's Sonnets:
