Shall I compare thee to a winter's day?
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.
No winds do blow; no darling buds of May,
And winter's death hath all to long a date.
Sometime too cold the mouth of Hell can smile,
And often is his cruel complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair dies, after while;
By love, or nature's kindness, trimmed;
And thy eternal winter shall not fade,
Nor gain possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall Death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in mortal confines thou do not grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or eyes can cry,
So long lives pain, and the question, "Why?"