11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)Those hours, that with gentle work did frameIn 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. |