Perhaps it’s Seasonal Affective Disorder:  it might be due to recent sad losses:  I might just be growing old;  but something, this time of year, brings me back to my favourite Shakespeare sonnets.  Just thought you might like to share one or two with me.

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 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.


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