11,112,006,825,558,016 Sonnets

(after Queneau)

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
Now is the time that face should form another;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

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