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 see'st the glowing 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 nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love
more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere
long.
