shall I compare thee to burning hay?
thou art more highly and more plenty.
rough tokes do shake the buds of August, and summer's shake has all too long to wait.
sometimes too hot the high of heaven shines,
And often is the gold reflection dimmed;
And every hair from fair bud does decline,
By chance, or nature's changing course, undimmed;
But thy eternal sizzle shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that buzz thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in a daze,
When in eternal times to fine thou grow'st,
      So long as men can breathe, or eyes get red,
      So long lives this, the smoke do smell like burning hay.