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 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 it's youth doth lie,
As the deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perciev'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

William Shakespeare