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Sonnet 97

            ,       ,        ,        ,         ,
      How like | a wint|er hath | my ab|sence been
             ,          ,        ,         ,         ,
      From thee,| the pleas|ure of | the flee|ting year?
             ,    ,       2      ,            T    T    T
      What free|zings have I | felt, what | dark days seen?
            ,       ,          ,        ,       ,
      What old | Decem|ber's bare|ness eve|rywhere?
           ,           ,        ,          ,          ,
      And yet | this time | removed | was sum|mer's time,
           ,        ,       ,           ,         ,
      The tee|ming aut|umn big | with rich | increase,
        ,            ,       ,       ,         ,
      Bearing | the want|on burd|en of | the prime,
            ,         ,      ,              ,          ,
      Like wid|owed wombs | after | their lords' | decease:
            ,      ,        ,        ,         ,
      Yet this | abun|dant is|sue seemed | to me
            ,        ,         ,       ,          ,
      But hope | of or|phans, and | unfath|ered fruit,
           ,       ,          ,          ,         ,
      For sum|mer and | his pleas|ures wait | on thee,
            ,       ,        ,      ,           ,
      And thou | away,| the ve|ry birds | are mute:
          ,          ,           ,         ,        ,
      Or if | they sing,| 'tis with | so dull | a cheer,
              ,             ,      ,             ,          ,
      That leaves | look* pale,| dreading | the wint|er's near.

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