Sonnet 73
by William Shakespeare
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 see’st 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, Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by. This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
This most famous of the one hundred fifty-four sonnets of William Shakespeare (1564-1660) evokes, as we all know, both the sweet sadness of the year’s waning and the less-sweet sadness of our own prospective decline. The poem’s fourth line is, if not the outright winner, at least a strong contender for the best poetic line ever rendered in English. “Sonnet 73” illustrates, as well, why this particular sonnet form, also known as the “English sonnet,” came to be identified not with its actual originator, Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517–1547), but with Shakespeare.
In the hands of the next-generation poet, this innovation on the Petrarchan sonnet form, first imported to England by Sir Thomas Wyatt (1503–1542), achieves an exemplary perfection in its unstrained iambic pentameter. The meter is so self-effacingly regular that the substitutions which begin lines 4 and 8 stand out in stark emphasis. We notice how bare and ruined the trees are, those empty choir stalls. Death, too, startles us, even in its lesser guise of sleep.
Even as the season draws to its close, the sonnet gains momentum through its three quatrains, continually upping its own stakes. Yes, yes, the speaker says, you’ll notice my autumn. You’ll notice, furthermore, my sunset, which signals the onset of night and sleep, which makes you think, does it not? You might also notice the falling-to-ashes of various metaphorical fires. Perhaps you’ll consider that the more we live, the more we’re always dying. And knowing all this — the couplet delivers the kicker — you’ll hold me that much closer before you let me go.
I turn 73 at the end of the month,, so this sonnet takes on a personal, if arbitrary significance. When I was a young poet, I remember first noticing (or being told) that each stanza narrows the scope--from season, to dying day, to dying fire. This taught me something. Given the substitutions of trochees at the beginning of the 4th and 8th line, as pointed out by the fine analysis, I wonder if the first word of the 12th line were not pronounced CON-sumed, unlikely as that consummation may be.
It cuts way to near the bone, while still flesh is upon it. Still, you will not hear me moan, for the glory of the love denies all groans.