Winter
Shall I compare thee to a Winter's day?
Thou art more desolate and more bitter:
Harsh hail downpour upon the moors of December,
And winter's return hath come too soon:
Sometime too sharp the claws of hell grasp,
And often her obsidian lips gleam;
Yet your fairness shall never decline,
By the methods of your pallets of deceitful decoration;
Therefore thy eternal winter shall not end
Nor lose the potency of its torment;
Nor shall Death rid me of thy suffering
When in eternal lines your Winter continues;
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
