How about a little Shakespeare to brighten your Sunday? This is actually one of my favorites of his sonnets. I have featured it here before but it was way back in 2018, practically a lifetime ago!
He's writing here about just this time of year but also about this time of life - the autumn of our years. He speaks of the "boughs which shake against the cold...where late the sweet birds sang." There are no boughs shaking against the cold here where daytime temperatures still reach around 90 degrees F. But I am in my autumn and winter is coming.
Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold
by 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.
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.
For me, this is a song of regret and memory and almost of clinging.
ReplyDeleteI think you've got it exactly right. He regrets that the "year" - for which read "life" - is coming to an end and perhaps wishes that some of it had gone differently.
DeleteLove a little Shakespeare on a Sunday. And that last line! What a good one. :D
ReplyDeleteIt does really say it all, doesn't it? It seems that Shakespeare always had just the right words for everything.
DeleteHaving just returned from a funeral in England, and talking to a friend of our who is working on a book on Shakespeare, this is very timely for me, Dorothy.
ReplyDeleteI'm so sorry to hear of the funeral. Also, I'm interested to hear that your friend is writing about Shakespeare. He is a boundless source of material for writers.
DeleteConsidering that Shakespeare was only 52 when he died, he still had a great understanding of the autumn of his life. I also read regret into this sonnet. If only he knew how his works would live on and be studied for centuries after his death! And now I know where "where late the sweet birds sang" came from.
ReplyDeleteI suspect that autumn came a bit sooner in the time that Shakespeare lived.
DeleteBeautiful blog
ReplyDeleteThank you.
DeletePlease read my post
ReplyDeleteI like this phrase: "Death's second self." I always think I must read more of Shakespeare's sonnets one of these days. Maybe one day...
ReplyDelete