The Pleasure of the Fleeting Year

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen,
What old December's bareness everywhere!
And yet this time remov'd was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase
Bearing the wanton burthen of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And thou away, the very birds are mute;
Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.
Sonnet 97

I think number 97 might be seen as a suitable "lockdown" sonnet to celebrate, or at least mark, Shakespeare's birthday in these times of lockdowns, social distancing, hand-washing, and mask-wearing. It's been a strangely upside-down time to celebrate anything, hasn't it? We did the full suite of family birthdays over Zoom in 2020, and have now almost completed a second round. I imagine you, too, may have tried blowing out candles over the internet: it's not easy.