Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Shakespeare, sonnet 14th
Autumn boasted it arrival, just as Fall did.
The stars in the night lost its hope.
The leaves grew colorful but old.
The eyes shed all its tears.
As the span took its toll.