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.