[alphaBetaGamma]

No Mention of the Bard?

    That time of year thou may'st in me behold
    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 perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
        To love that well which thou must leave ere long.