Poetry, notes, and drawings by William Michaelian
Well played, old friend. Now here ’tis again, without the obnoxious, distracting advertising:SONNET 73That time of year thou may'st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon 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 perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.*Bless your shout across the pond!
Thanks for your blessing, Wild Bill--I hear you loud and clear.
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