Wind from the Sea, Andrew Wyeth
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 ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth from the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth from the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
Turkey Pond, Andrew Wyeth
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.
A tattered coat upon a stick…
-Sailing to Byzantium, William Butler Yeats