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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st 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 deathbed 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.
In me you can see that time of year
When a few yellow leaves or none at all hang
On the branches, shaking against the cold,
Bare ruins of church choirs where lately the sweet birds sang.
In me you can see only the dim light that remains
After the sun sets in the west,
Which is soon extinguished by black night,
The image of death that envelops all in rest.
I am like a glowing ember
Lying on the dying flame of my youth,
As on the death bed where it must finally expire,
Consumed by that which once fed it.
This you sense, and it makes your love more determined
Causing you to love that which you must give up before long.
One Book a Week (Julia Reads Books) 
Leave a comment