That time of year – Sonnet 73

That time of year thou mayest 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 each day

As after sunset fadeth in the west,

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Death’s second self, that seal up all in rest.

In me thou seest 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 perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

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