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.

Sonnet 73: That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold

William Shakespeare

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

This time I will show you Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett a design from the Rowan Knitting & Crochet Magazin 58. I have knitted it for a friend, who saw it and wanted it. And I must confess I was very pleased to knit it for him.

And there are some reasons why I loved knitting this sweater. First of all it is knitted in one of my favourite yarns by Rowan: Colourspun. I like to knit with this yarn, it is soft and is producing a smooth surface and it is always fun to see the changing of the subtle colours.

Second the checkerboard pattern on front and back is knitted in intarsia technique, using 5 shades of Rowan Colourspun.  I’m always pleased to knit in this technique because it is producing a garment with one layer and stretch compared with fair-isle and therefore suitable for a flattering look. The sleeves are knitted in one colour of Rowan Colourspun only.

And third I was pleased to knit it for my friend and even more pleased seeing him wearing it a lot, because the temperatures dropped here in Germany to almost wintery degrees.

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Guernsey by Kaffe Fassett

Sarnia farewell! farewell thy rocky shore;
Far o’er the main I ne’er may see thee more;
Yet will I not regret thee—save thy flowers—
They well were worthy the immortal bowers
Which poets love to wreathe, and oft have sung.
Thine are the hues, which once o’er Eden flung
Their charm of fragrance—when our parents’ gaze
First met in paradise—that holy maze
Of beauty and of love; thine island’s pride
Is worthy of thee, thus with sea allied.
Thy roses bloom!—but where is the fair cheek?
The eye of eloquence in vain we seek
Mid Sarnia’s daughters—and the graceful form
Dwells not with thee—thou isle begirt with storm!—
Save in thy gardens:—there the lily’s grace,
Verbena’s odour breathes—a hardy race—
The fuschia’s bloom its pendant drops disclose,
While thousand plants with richest shading glow;
Camelias too their waxlike beauties spread,
Where orange-flowers their choicest pērfume shed;
And Nature, niggard to thy forest trees,
Fans e’en thy wild flowers with her softest breeze.
Farewell!—a long farewell!—no tear will start,
With thee I leave no fond, devoted heart;
And memory’s tracery of bygone years,
And all that love still hopes, believes, and fears,
Is not with thee—child of old Ocean’s foam!
The poet’s heart is now—e’en now—at home.

Edward Henry Bickersteth