“ That time of year thou may’st in me behold. When or 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 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 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 nour-ished by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”