SONNET 73 |
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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 ruin'd 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 see'st 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 nourish'd by. |
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, |
To love that well which thou must leave ere long. |
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
sonnet LXXIII
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