Sonnet XCVII.

XCVII. How like a winter hath my absence been From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt. what dark days seen! What old December's bareness every where! And yet this time remov'd was summer's time; The teeming 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 orphans 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, dreading the winter's near.