WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry.
On the bat’s back I do fly.
After summer merrily:
Merrily, merrily, shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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THAT time of year thou may’st in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon 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 dayAs after Sunset fadeth in the West,Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second…
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