My favorite of Shakespeare's sonnets, number 73, but now it has a different and sadder connotation for me. Not just advancing old age, but death itself. On my walks with Maia, I keep noticing the trees with "yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang" and thinking of bare ruined choirs. No more sweet birds singing.
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 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,
Consumed 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.