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 thoust seest the twiglight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth taketh away, Death’s second self, that seals up all the 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 perceiv’st, which makes they love more strong, To love that well, which thou must ere leave long.
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)