September Poetry -- 3 of --n

J$


From: js@cs.vu.nl (J$)
Newsgroups: nl.eeuwig.september
Subject: September Poetry -- 3 of --n
Date: Mon, 30 Sep 1996 23:20:57 +0200
Organization: Diff'rent colours, made of tears
Message-ID: <js-3009962320570001@js.home.phil.ruu.nl>

        Sonnet LXXIII -- That time of year
             -- William Shakespeare --


    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 seešst the twilight of such a day
    As after sunset fadeth in the west,
    Which by and by black night doth take away,
    Deathšs second self, that seals up all in rest.
    In me thou seešst 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 nourished by.
      Thus thou perceivšst, which makes thy love more strong
      To love that which thou must leave ere long.