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Winter Scene

Oh thou sweet summer sun, why hast thou forsaken me once again? 

My heart yearneth for thee. I long for the gentle embrace of thy warmth – the tender caress of thy gentle beams – and yet my love remaineth unrequited by thee. Thou has utterly cast me off as a tattered garment. I find no solace in thy icy gaze. I am disconsolate. Nay, I will not be consoled. Thy scorn filleth the air like a million glistening diamonds, and yet they canst not wholly quench my undying love for thee. They are but sirens of yore – an unmerciful choir of treachery. Their beauty belieth the unspeakable anguish of love’s mortality.

My heart hath no more tears. I am faint – weakened by the relentless tortures of the cruel captor to whom thou hast resigned my unwilling heart. I soon shall sleep the long sleep of winter’s death, hoping against all hope that spring should beckon thy return and a most glorious resurrection – the rebirth of our love. Though thou scornest me a hundred times, a hundred times I shall welcome the glow of thy smiling face yet again. My heart shall rise up again. We shall laugh. We shall dance. The first gentle rays of thy summer sun shall touch my lips again like our first kiss and my heart shall glow yet again with the fervor of our love.  But that is not now.  There is no laughter now – only bitter silence.

Whilst love’s flame now flickers its last, thou knowest well that beneath the peaceful tranquility of winter’s glistening grave, our love lieth buried like a smoldering ember awaiting its day of rekindling.  That most unimaginable and ridiculous hope mattereth little this day. This day I sleep that long solemn sleep from which no one imagineth a return.  And so with my heart’s last breath I bid thee farewell, my love. Adieu, my sweet summer sun.

– William Douglas Keeslerspeare