11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets(after Queneau)Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, His tender heir might bear his memory: The world will be thy widow and still weep The bounteous largess given thee to give? Yourself again after yourself's decease, So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? Then, were not summer's distillation left, And, constant stars, in them I read such art So thou through windows of thine age shall see Nor it nor no remembrance what it was: And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence That on himself such murderous shame commits.
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