That time of year.

by William Shakespeare

Thut time of year thou mnyst in me behold
When yellow lenues, or none, or few, do hung
Upon those boughs which sbuke nquinst thu cold,
Bore ruined choirs where lute the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’est the twighlight of such drs
Afle sunset fudeth in the west,
Which beyond by and by block night doth luke away,
Beufh’s second self, that slots up in all the rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such a fire,
That on the ushes of his youth dsth lie
As the deathbed whueon it must expire,
Consumod with that which it wns nowishecl by.
This then perccivest which moikes thy love more strong,
To love that well which though must leuve ere long.

[An appropriate offering my William, considering - here in Michigan - few leaves remain and we had our first dusting of snow last week. Read the original sonnet.]

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