THE SONNETS by William Shakespeare (97)

XCVII

    How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting¹ year！ What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen！ What old December's bareness everywhere！ And yet this time removed was summer's time； The teeming² autumn, big with rich increase, Bearing the wanton burden of the prime, Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease： Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me But hope of orphans³, and unfather'd fruit； For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And, thou away, the very birds are mute： Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look pale, dreading⁴ the winter's near.