Upon those boughs which shake against the cold

Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seeist 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 the rest.

In me thou seeist 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 nourished by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.