That time of year thou may’st in me behold1
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang2
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,3
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.4
In me thou seest the twilight of such day5
As after sunset fadeth in the west,6
Which by and by black night doth take away,7
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.8