Who’s ready for Autumn? – Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare

Autumn

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.

RYAN FU

Unknown

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