Shall I say how thou'rt like a mid-year's day?
 Thou art more fair and liv'st more calm a rate:
 Rough winds do shake the well-loved buds of May,
 And that time of year hath all too short a date:
 The sun at times will all too hot shine down
 And oft his gold skin soft and smooth is dimmed;
 And each fair one from fair will some day frown,
 By chance or by the world's changed course not trimmed;
 But thy mid-year won't end, and shall not fade
 Nor lose hold of that fair which fair thou owest;
 Nor shall Death brag that thou walkst in his shade,
 When in these lines till time sans end thou growst:
   So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
   So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

                                -- Will the Bard