That time of year, thou mayst inme 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 thos see' st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west ,
In me tous see on the asches of his youth dout lie,
As death - bed whereon it must expire,
To love that well which thos mest leave era long.