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 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 perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
In plain English
Look at me and you're seeing late autumn — trees stripped bare or nearly so, their branches rattling in the wind. I'm like a dead church choir loft where birds used to sing. These are the visible signs of what's happening inside me.
You can see the same decline in the fading light after sunset, that brief twilight that darkness swallows. Night comes like death itself, sealing everything into stillness. I'm also like a fire burning down to ash, consuming itself on the very fuel that once fed it.
You perceive all this. And somehow, knowing what I am — and what I won't be for much longer — makes your love stronger. You love me more deeply *because* you know you'll have to let me go.
