If I were to compare thee to the summers day, Thou would not be the the lovely warmth of the sun, or the trees of fair green. Thee would be the hot scorching flames, Under the tempting golden sun. Thee would be the maddening heat, Driving men to commit deeds only passion commends. And at which hour the dizzying temptation subsided, thee morph into winter. Cold and unfeeling, Pale and unyielding. Breaking my heart worse than the scorching flames I fell. My winter, my summer, thee shalt be the death of me. And the air that grants me life.