Images taken across the USA and Canada, September-November 2010.
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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
This girl’s eyes don’t shine like jewels.
Silk is much smoother than her skin.
Waterfalls flow into rivers, winds blow through trees,
more gracefully than her hair bounces as she walks.
She says the most wonderful things, but music sounds sweeter.
Her smile reaches her eyes when she laughs,
but it never lights up a room.
She kisses me with lips not quite as soft as feather pillows.
While angelic statues stand tall and proud,
she leans awkwardly against the wall and pouts.
I see roses in the florist window more red than her cheeks.
When she stands on her tip-toes to rub her nose against mine,
my heart never actually skips a beat.
And yet, my love for her is way more rare,
than a comparison to any random what or where.