by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
Shall I compare thee
to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely
and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake
the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath
all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye
of heaven shines,
And often is his gold
complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from
fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's
changing course, untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer
shall not fade
Nor lose possession
of that fair thou ow'st;
Nor shall Death brag
thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time
thou grow'st;
So long as men can breathe
or eyes can see,
So long lives this,
and this gives life to thee.
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