That time of year thou mayest 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 though 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 seest 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 nourished by.
     This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
     To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.