“That Time Of Year..”

…from the quills of the dead white poets

William Shakespeare (15641616)

(From “Sonnets”, LXXIII)

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 seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadetn 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 seeest 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:

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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One Response to “That Time Of Year..”

  1. F Wordiess says:

    Shaky Bill with with his death beds etc is so right for our times.

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