Sonnet LXXIII

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That time of year thou mayst in me behold
 Where yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
 Bare ruined choirs, where once the sweet birds sang.
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A metaphor f o r  g e t t i n g  o l d
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--Last edited by MeCh on 2007-03-27 18:30:14 --