That time of year…

That time of yeeare thou maist in me behold,
When yellow leaves, or none, or few doe hang
Upon those boughes which shake against the could,
Bare, ruin’d quiers, where late the sweet birds sang.

Shakespeare’s Sonnet no. 73

Author: Neil Rathmell

Writer and former teacher.

One thought on “That time of year…”

  1. John Donne (1572-1631), in the first of his ‘Holy Sonnets’, is in like subdued and melancholy mood.

    He reflects upon his approaching departure from this world and, while he is on the one hand haunted by thoughts of past sins, indwelling corruption and future judgment, he also turns his heart’s hope to the grace of God in Christ and His strong and sure grip – even in the face of death.

    Thou hast made me, and shall thy work decay?
    Repair me now, for now mine end doth haste,
    I run to death, and death meets me as fast,
    And all my pleasures are like yesterday;
    I dare not move my dim eyes any way,
    Despair behind, and death before doth cast
    Such terror, and my feebled flesh doth waste
    By sin in it, which it towards hell doth weigh.
    Only thou art above, and when towards thee
    By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
    But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
    That not one hour I can myself sustain;
    Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
    And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.


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