Sonnet 98

From you have I been absent in the spring,

When proud-pied April dress’d in all his trim

Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,

That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.

Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell

Of different flowers in odour 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 seem’d it winter still, and, you away,

As with your shadow I with these did play.

I haven’t been present this spring

For the cornucopia. The kaleidoscope

Has passed over everything,

Bringing Sisyphus, even, off the slope.

Not the color of birds, nor the song

Of flowers, has called a story of summer

To memory. I walk slowly along,

Nothing to garner.

I don’t pause to marvel at the whiteness of lilies

Or swim into the depth of a rose.

They have their sweetness like metaphors—

Analogies for which you were the source.

No, it’s been winter, you away;

Like playing with your shadow, when I play.