To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, Steal from his figure and no pace perceived; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived: For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred; Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LENTEN GREETING; TO A LADY by GEORGE SANTAYANA A BIRTHDAY by LOUIS UNTERMEYER VOLUNTARIES by RALPH WALDO EMERSON WAPENTAKE; TO ALFRED TENNYSON by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR by ALFRED TENNYSON A JEWISH FAMILY; IN A SMALL VALLEY OPPOSITE ST. GOAR by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH HILLS by GUILLAUME APOLLINAIRE FIDELIA ARGUING WITH HER SELF ON THE DIFFICULTY FINDING TRUE RELIGION by JANE BARKER |