Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
The Golden days, the most fabulous parts ever in the whole year, sneak in only during the turn of July and August, to be exposed to the unfinished ripe of dates, persimmons and grapes.
Lanterns of fish and dragon, in the breadth of shifting moonlight, Dance in parades for an infinite hilarious night.
Starry sparkles, a careless note, Modest raindrops over the blooms in a whisper silently loud.
We make each and every touch of merriment magnified, and dramatized.
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