William Shakespeare. Sonnet XCVII</br> </br> </br> </br> How like a winter hath my absence been</br> From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!</br> What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!</br> What old December's bareness every where!</br> And yet this time removed was summer's time,</br> The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,</br> Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,</br> Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:</br> Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me</br> But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;</br> For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,</br> And, thou away, the very birds are mute;</br> Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer</br> That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.</br> </br> </br>
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