Shakespeare Sonnet
From you I have been absent in the spring
When proud-pied April, dressed all in his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything
The heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet not the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour or in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white
Nor praise the deep vermillion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet seemed
winter still, and, you away,
As with
your shadow I with these did play.
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