In me you may see this season of the year, the yellow leaves are either all gone, or only twos and threes, hanging on the shivering withered branches, the deserted singing circle, where the sweet birds used to sing. In me you might see the twilight of this time, which fades in the west after sunset; the night, the incarnation of death, slowly drives it away, and encloses all things in rest. In me you may see the gleam of that fire, dying in the ashes of his youth, dying sooner or later on a bleak coffin, destroyed by the flames that nourished it. Witnessing this, your love will be stronger, because he will leave you for a long time in a flash.
--William Shakespeare
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