Conceit

You asked, would I compare you
to a summer's day?
Well, yes, said I, I would,
though not in the same way.

Temperate you are not,
you are all but mild,
at times I’d say too hot,
and other times, quite wild.

I guess someday the Sun
will see you and pause,
conceding you are one
defying many laws.

Awed by your perfection,
the bright sun will melt,
lose his gold complexion—
his molten gold will start

to rain over your face,
and you, my dear, will shine
and give light in his place.

What are you saying, the wine?
O no, I had not one drop:
you asked, I replied—full stop.