Rewriting the Bard

I think of you, my love, as a nice, warm day.  Not cold with wind, nor burnt by the sun, but a day where there are no clouds and the sky is clear.  Days like that, like blooms, are gone too soon.  But not you.  Your grace will hold.  I will save it here so that my words and, hence your bloom, will not fade, and though you may lie cold in your grave, you will stay with me for all time.