Bare Ruined Choirs

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 Consum`d with that which it was nourish`d by. This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.