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

(after Queneau)

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
For never-resting time leads summer on
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
You had a father: let your son say so.

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