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 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 deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Thanks for that. And thank you for your appreciation. I remember you liked this poem. It's one of my all-time favorites. I actually photocopied from the issue of the New Yorker it was published. Later, I had the chance to see Jane Hirshfield in person and she was gracious enough to sign and dedicate my folded, photocopy of her poem. Wonderful person.
You know what I love? How in XXIX the couplet at the end, after all the tortured language of the first 15 lines, ol' Bill hammers home the point with 10 beautiful syllables of purest monosyllabic iambic pentameter:
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings
That's why they call him The Bard.
It's so nice to spend time with people who care about this stuff.
Posted this one last year. Due to Prince's passing, I thought I'd post it again.
And it's terrific. Puts one in mind of 73:
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 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 deathbed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Thanks for that. And thank you for your appreciation. I remember you liked this poem. It's one of my all-time favorites. I actually photocopied from the issue of the New Yorker it was published. Later, I had the chance to see Jane Hirshfield in person and she was gracious enough to sign and dedicate my folded, photocopy of her poem. Wonderful person.
You know what I love? How in XXIX the couplet at the end, after all the tortured language of the first 15 lines, ol' Bill hammers home the point with 10 beautiful syllables of purest monosyllabic iambic pentameter:
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings
That's why they call him The Bard.
It's so nice to spend time with people who care about this stuff.
Flattered to be remembered. Hope you'll listen or have listened to this week's "On The Media," which is all about Shakespeare.