Shakespeare's Sonnet 98

From you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him.Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour and in hue,Could make me any summer’s story tell,Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;They were but sweet, but figures of delight,Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,As with your shadow I with these did play.

I was away from you in spring, when brightly colored April, dressed in all its finery, put such a youthful spirit into everything that even gloomy Saturn laughed and leaped along with it. Yet neither the birds' songs nor the sweet smell of flowers, so varied in scent and color, could make me tell a cheerful summer story or pick the flowers from the splendid places where they grew.
I did not marvel at the lily's whiteness or praise the rose's deep red. They were merely sweet, merely images of delight copied from you, the model for them all.
With you away, it still seemed like winter, and playing with these flowers was like playing with your shadow.