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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