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Where late the sweet birds sang

Early fall has very quickly become middle fall. Though these pear trees up the road still have most of their leaves, the leaves on the trees in the woods are turning brown and falling. Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

A bare, ruin’d choir of woods below my house

A briar berry

A dried weed

That time of year thou mayst behold thriving turnips and mustard.

Something black and wicked tiptoes through the turnips. A Lily cat?

My house seen from the woods

My front door. I now have a shiny new doorkey to jingle in my pocket.

These two shots of the house show some of the angles that made the house so tricky to build.

The winter wind will whistle around these corners in a very gothic sort of way.

Sonnet 73

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.

— William Shakespeare

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