From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue,
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or 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 pattern of all those.
Yet seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
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Shakespeare's works are amazing. No matter how many of his poems, plays, or sonnets I read. Never do they bore me. He is the greatest writer to have lived.
This is a particular favourite of mine. He makes such a wonderful use of imagery. -
ah....it's spring outside...and within ....it
'seemed it winter still, and, you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.'
This is a truelover's work. I have read a book - *Absent in the Spring* - by Agatha Christie, named after this very poem. And that is only a small proof of the remarkability of this piece of art.
What can I say else? I pity you, lover, watching those
'figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.'
But, thank heaven for it, Shakespeare, for your 'shadow' has lasted all these long years.
Edited on Nov 18, 11:16 p.m. because ''.
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