Szia!

Nem tudom, mit írjak, addig is itt egy Shakespeare szonett:

XII

When I do count the clock that tells the time
And see the brave day suck in hideous night
When I behold the violet past prime
And sable curis, all silver’d o’er with white
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Whitch erst from heat did canopy the herd
And summer’s green all grided up is sheaves
Borne on the bier whit white and bristy beard
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forasake
And die as fast as they see others grow
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save dread, to brave him when he takes thee hence.