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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang
In me thou sees 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 deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by
This thou percerst, which makes they love more strong.
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long
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