From you, I have been absent in the Spring
When Proud pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a Spirit of Youth in everything,
that hoary Saturn laughed and leapt with him.
Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers, in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
nor from their proud lap,pluck them where they grew
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose.
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, you but pattern of all those
Yet seemed it Winter still and you away
As with your shadow, I with these do play.
WS. Sonnet 98