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How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun.
Vincent Van Gogh

LXXIII



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.

 	--William Shakespeare

Henry David Thoreau
To reget deeply is to live afresh.

LXXI



No longer mourn for me when I am dead

Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

Give warning to the world that I am fled

From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:

Nay, if you read this line, remember not

The hand that writ it, for I love you so,

That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,

If thinking on me then should make you woe.

O! if,--I say you look upon this verse,

When I perhaps compounded am with clay,

Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;

But let your love even with my life decay;

  Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

  And mock you with me after I am gone.

 	--William Shakespeare