That time of year thou may'st 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 sand.
In me thou see'st 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 though perciev'st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
William Shakespeare, 1564-1616