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LXXIII.
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 ruin'd 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 see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the
ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon
it must expire
Consumed with that which it was
nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy
love more strong,
To love that well which thou must
leave ere long.
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