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      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 seest 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 seest 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.