Poem: “Sonnet 73," by 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 ruin’d 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 the 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, 

Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by. 

This thou perceiv’st, which make thy love more strong, 

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.