Shall I compare thee to a winter’s morn?
Thou art more frigid and thou cometh too late.
Rough winds do shake the branches of the thorn,
And winter’s sun hath all too long to wait.
Sometimes too bright the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed
By cloud and wind and snow amidst the pines,
Or chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed.
But thy eternal chill shall never fade
Nor lose possession of that icy grace;
Thou’rt dead at heart, but death has been delayed
But memories shall never yet erase
So long as men can breathe or eyes can cry,
So long lives love, but now I say good-bye.