Shall I compare you to a winterís day? You are more dark and full of misery. Hunchbacked trees will never once complain About the wind or snow or stormy sea. But you? I think youíd want all of mankind To feel the joy of a monthly tax bill. Perhaps the problem is not in your mind Just the mirror of time makes you ill. The red-brown blossom with cuffless pants Became a tree with an old gnarled hand. Beauty lives by escaping. Take a chance And let worry go. Soon youíll understand To make beauty grow in a loverís heart Give it some room or it will fall apart.