From you have I been absent in the spring
By William Shakespeare
From you have I been absent from the spring
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leapt with him,
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odor and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew.
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
Yet it seemed winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play.
