11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets

(after Queneau)

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And die as fast as they see others grow;
O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

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