Sunday 27 October 2019

Its That time of year...

The clocks have gone back one hour and it was dark by 5pm today. Some of the daily routine smallholding tasks have to be brought forward. 

We also had a frost first thing this morning, the second of the season. At last a sunny dry day, though, and its looks like this will continue for a few more days at least. It will shortly be November already. Time does seem to speed on ever faster as Sue who lives a quiet life in Suffolk pointed out yesterday.

As the seasons move on, its time for another poem. As you might expect with Shakespeare, this one is not really about autumn, but rather love and death.

Sonnet 73 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 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.


  1. Oh I had completely forgotten that Sonnet. I first came across it 18 when I went to uni, and met a "mature student" who was all of 27 and considered himself the "old man" in my group of friends. Almost half a century later, I find myself wondering what happened to him. It's a great piece. Thanks Philip for bringing back good memories. We may be looking older and more wrinkled as each season passes, but inside we still have moments of youthful enthusiasm!

  2. I’m pleased the poem provoked some good memories, Angela. Thanks.

  3. I like how you add prose and poetry to your posts. Thanks.

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