Sonnets viii

 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 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 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.

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