Shall I compare thee to a winters day?
Thou art far more lovely and more temperate,
Stormy tempests o'er man holds lesser sway,
And Serapin's melee easier to placate.
Like the hopeful botanist that doth tend,
And hope to see renewed, the bloom of Spring,
With roughened care and tenderness mend,
Knowing the beauty that hideth like the sap within.
Like the sweetest melody, thrice sweetly played,
Beyond any art to capture and contain,
Without harming that most harmoniously made.
Making purest notes no rarer than rain.
Time flitting by, a pretty, empty finger seen,
Thou flitting by, I darest not thy wild grace demean.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Glacian, in the year 382 AF.