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 seest 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 perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Shakespeare
3 comments:
Good God... I was just teaching that poem the other day and whilst suggesting amongst its themes the idea of an ageing artist who has regrets at the lost fire and passion of his youth one of my students pipes up "So... it's about you then, sir? Giving up doing for teaching?"
To be fair the cheeky bastard is right...
whats brought this on? Do tell.
Binty,
A it's a fine poem. It's the 'Bare ruin'd choirs' that get's me.
Zin Zin,
I just happened to read it again recently and decided to treat you all.
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