Sunday Drive

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 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 . . .

 

 

This thou perceiv’st which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

– William Shakespeare, Sonnet LXXIII