William Shakespeare, 1609
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 seest 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
Consumed with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Christopher Hinton, 2012
Tis’ Autumn season yet once again
Where in the h-e-double hockey sticks doth the time go?
Answer me, thou canst not my dear, wise friend.
Why, just last week it was summer, warm
And the week before twas a lively spring,
Dagnabbit, I found a gray hair in my beard
Tweezers and dyes hath I, but it mean’ith not a thing.
The color of leaves turn to orange, to yellow
To red, from whence they were once vibrant green
The photosynthesis of life is a real mothertrucker
If you know what I mean, jelly bean.
So live thou life from the greens, to the grays
Liveth all the colors in between
Until winter washes white, peaceful and gentle
Until final seasons thou will sing.
Speaking of living all the colours… that reminds me of a poem I literally just read this afternoon by Mark Doty called Door to the River which has a fantastic use of colours. Sorry for my so very un-Amercican spelling of colour by the way. ColoUr. hehe. hehehe. Webster made American spelling so much more logical and practical than everyone else’s. Now the rest of us just look silly. No fair.
You. Crack. Me. Up.
Which is better then Youre. Up. My. Crack.