On Thoughts of Autumn
That time of year thou mayest in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon these boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.
I planned to use this Shakespeare sonnet as a way to begin my thoughts on autumn – of a year, of a life. But anything that I might write falls extraordinarily short of The Bard. So I leave the rest of his sonnet for you. Here in North Carolina it is a grey, rainy day. A day for contemplation.
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.
Another Sunday, www.cynthiastrauff.com