That time of year thou may`st 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 see`st 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
Consum`d 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.