I shan’t thee to a summer’s day compare;
Thou lov’st not temp’rate climes I yet disdain.
Cold shake thy searing winds I find as fair:
For, over most creation, cold doth reign.

Yet burn thou bright and hot as Heaven’s eye;
And cold and dark, as dark is Neptune’s Lair;
And nary cold may pale nor fade to die
Thy nature’s spark so hidden unaware.

So is this edge infinity for me:
And shalt thou–changeless ’til the edge of time,
Whilst draw my breath, and know mine eyes foresee–
Remain, ’til death shall take me, in thy prime.

Then fades’ thy mem’ry’s pain; for few men see
Such life these lines contain, these give to thee.

David Emeron

• To: myself

This sonnet is part of a short, or
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