The Sonnets

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 ruinʼd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seeʼst the twilight of such day

As after sunset fadeth in the west;

Which by and by black night doth take away,

Deathʼs second self, that seals up all in rest.

In me thou seeʼst the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consumʼd with that which it was nourishʼd by.

This thou perceivʼst, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.