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 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.
