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Sonnet Seventy-three Print E-mail
By William Shakespeare   
Wednesday, 14 September 2011

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 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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