Tuesday, December 31, 2002
Sonnet Lxxiii Comments
Rating: ★5.0
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.
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8/2/2025 12:42:08 PM # 1.0.0
Iambic pentameter. I like the metaphor of winter and the setting sun being reminders of death. He loves more deeply that which he must leave behind because of that reminder.