That time of year you now can see in me
 When pale gold leaves, or none, or few, do hang
 On all those boughs which shake with cold,
 Bare wrecked choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
 In me you see the end light of a day
 As when the sun has gone from in the west;
 Which by and by black night takes on its way,
 A sort of death that seals up all the rest.
 In me you see the glow of such a flame,
 That on the ash made in its youth now lies --
 So that the bed on which it dies
 Eats it, which it had ate once all the same.
   All this you see, which makes your love more strong,
   To love that well, which you must leave ere long.

                                -- Will the Bard