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That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yelloe 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 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
And the Death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourished by
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long