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

(after Queneau)

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Leaving thee living in posterity?
Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

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