THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold <br />When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang <br />Upon those boughs which shake against the cold-- <br />Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang, <br />In me thou see'st the twilight of such day <br />As after Sunset fadeth in the West, <br />Which by and by black night doth take away, <br />Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. <br />In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire <br />That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, <br />As the death-bed whereon it must expire, <br />Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. <br /> This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong <br /> To love that well which thou must leave ere long.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnets-viii/
