Ο Στόουνερ

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,

Consumed with that which it was nourisht by.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,

To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Στὴ σιωπὴ ποὺ ἀκολούθησε, κάποιος ξερόβηξε. Ὁ Σλόουν ἐπανέλαβε τοὺς στίχους, μὲ τὴ φωνή του νὰ γίνεται καὶ πάλι μονότονη, ἡ δική του χαρακτηριστική φωνή.

This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

Τὰ μάτια τοῦ Σλόουν ἑστίασαν καὶ πάλι στὸν Γουίλιαμ Στόουνερ· εἶπε ξερά: «Ὁ κύριος Σαίξπηρ σᾶς μιλάει ἀπὸ ἀπόσταση τριακοσίων ἐτῶν, κύριε Στόουνερ· τὸν ἀκοῦτε;»