Comparing thee to a summer's day
In boiling heights of temperature.
June third was quite nice I must say,
And of this truth I feel assured.
Spring compasses just falling rain
And insects that steadily whine.
Winter has snow and cold to call:
Nothing that is the least sublime.
Fall is only winter's soft kin --
A dearth of leaves and nothing fine.
It is on summer that I pin
All hopes that you will yet be mine.
That day in June I give to you
Hoping summer alone is true.
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