Thursday, February 05, 2009

shakespeare's seventy-third sonnet

That time of year thou may’st 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 death-bed, whereon it must expire,

Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.

This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.


Rouchswalwe said...

Verily. What strength there is in those who know the truth of the seventy-third sonnet.

tristan said...

... blushes and clears throat nervously ...

Lucy said...

Gorgeous. Blush away.

tristan said...

thanx for visiting !

i'd driven past these trees too many times and today was soaked by rain and fog for my troubles