Subject: Souvenir of the good old days ~{sKf88P~}

From: [email-masked] (Chaun Luo)
Date: Wed, 10 Nov 1993 06:13:42 GMT

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which is quite sentimental just like my salad days, when I was green in 
judgment, cold in blood as an untempered youth. Here is another poem by
Shakespeare and has the same mentality as that by early ~{@nGeUU~} in every
aspect except he talks about the Reaper in a more explicit way. And I think
it is OK to post it in English since it could be a nice topic to talk about
the vicissitude of the world, one's old flames and the tyranny of time, etc.

                            Sonnet 73

                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 blak 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 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.

~{UbJGNRWnO2;65DR;JW#,5+T81pRk!$!$!$