By happy coincidence, the greatest English playwright is also the greatest English poet. Here is Sonnet 73 from Shakespeare's collection of sonnets. It's an excellent poem for middle-aged husbands feeling sorry for themselves in the middle of winter. (Note: The phrase "bare ruined choirs" refers to choir lofts. Shakespeare is saying that he is like a tree in winter, and that trees in winter are like ruined choir-lofts -- which used to be full of singing birds, but which are now empty and forlorn.):
Sonnet 73, by William Shakespeare
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 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 death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consumed with that which it was nourished by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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