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

(after Queneau)

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
When I behold the violet past prime,
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
No love toward others in that bosom sits
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

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