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

(after Queneau)

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
This were to be new made when thou art old,
Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

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