THAT time of year thou may'st in me behold br When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang br Upon those boughs which shake against the cold-- br Bare ruin'd choirs where late the sweet birds sang, br In me thou see'st the twilight of such day br As after Sunset fadeth in the West, br Which by and by black night doth take away, br Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. br In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire br That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, br As the death-bed whereon it must expire, br Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by. br    This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong br    To love that well which thou must leave ere long.