An earlier sonnet expressing a very different emotional sympathy with the season is one of Shakespeare’s Sonnets upon the Autumn of love:
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 wheron it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong
To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.
