Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day?

You are but a multitude of ray?

Shining brighter than bright.

Your golden locks shiver through May,

Shortness of time, is a mean sight:

Too hot, too hot, too very hot,

And sometimes cold;

Fading, transfixed in a pot,

Nature it is too bold;

Complete, never to fade

Your beauty 'twill decline;

Death never yours to parade,

Blooded ink renders divine:

Once your facilities and senses sway,

You will forever be a Dorian Gray.