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,
Bear ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of the 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 in all in rest.
In me thou seest the growing 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 nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love
more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave
ere long...