Welcome back to the Daily Poem, a podcast from Goldberry Studios.

I'm Sean Johnson, and today is Wednesday, June 5th, 2024.

Today's poem is Sonnet 73 from William Shakespeare that begins,

That Time of Year Thou Mest in Me, Behold.

I'll read it once, offer a few comments and read it one more time.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold when yellow leaves, or none nor few do hang, upon those boughs would shake against the cold, bare ruined 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 seest the glowing of such fire that on the ashes of his youth doth lie,

as the deathbed whereon it must expire, consumed with that which it was nourished by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

to love that well which thou must leave there long.

So here we have a reversal of the more common Shakespearean sonnet trope, the poet's gift of immortality to the beloved by preserving their beauty in verse. Here, the speaker of the poem is also fading but makes no attempt explicitly anyway.

I guess this poem exists so it has been done,

but makes no attempt to preserve themselves their own beauty or youth

simply to acknowledge the passing of those things with some really great analogies.

The first is, again, the turning of the seasons.

When you see in me that time of year when yellow leaves or none or just a few hang upon the branches in the cold,

suggesting without working over hard to draw the comparison,

suggesting the thinning or the balding of the hair. The hair turns a lighter color. It grays just as the leaves

turn yellow. Maybe it thins and is only there in patches or maybe there's none at all. And so to the voice

of a man that was once perhaps rich and full of color in his youth is grown thin or high or scratchy.

...