Sonnet 73

tumblr_mdwekhuwfo1qb5t88o1_1280
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

tumblr_nvyubmM5sL1qzyjdbo1_1280Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

tumblr_nvwr9xGpSB1qzyjdbo1_1280In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;

tumblr_nvyuyq9BqG1qzyjdbo1_540Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.

tumblr_nvwq5zibrc1qzyjdbo1_540In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

tumblr_nvwr7zw9Ln1qzyjdbo1_540As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

tumblr_ney3faeKWG1qzdiqvo1_1280This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Sonnet 73 | William Shakespeare