That time of year thou mayst in me behold

[pscot]

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,
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,
Consum'd 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.

Seventy today

[Extend a Hand]

1. Happy Birthday?

anyway :P

[ananda]

2. Congratulations.

Nice sonnet.

[pscot]

5. He was probably only in his '40s

when he wrote it. By the time he was my age he'd been dead for 18 years.

[sinkingfeeling]

3. Happy Birthday!

[Berry Cool]

4. Happy Birthday!

I know people way younger than you who act as if each birthday is horrible. I tell them to consider the alternative. Really, it's not so bad.

[aucklanddentist]

6. What did you mean by death's second self?

What did you mean by death's second self?


It'd be nice if half my patients were able to spout of stuff like that while they're on the nitrous.




Auckland Dentist