William Shakespeare

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: