Base Is The Slave That

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.

If We Shadows Have Offended, Think But This, And All Is Mended, That You Have But Slumber'd Here While These Visions Did Appear.

But Fish Not With This Melancholy Bait For This Fool Gudgeon, This Opinion.

Ere I Could Make Thee Open Thy White Hand, And Clap Thyself My Love; Then Didst Thou Utter, I Am Your's For Ever!

A Sad Tale's Best For Winter. I Have One Of Sprites And Goblins.