LOVE, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humour of the eye; -- Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted cheek, -- Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, As if the rose made summer, -- and so lie Amongst the perishable things that die, Unlike the love which I would give and seek: Whose health is of no hue -- to feel decay With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. Love is its own great loveliness alway, And takes new lustre from the touch of time; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossom into Winter's clime. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHAT THE SONNET IS by EUGENE JACOB LEE-HAMILTON UPON A SPIDER CATCHING A FLY by EDWARD TAYLOR THE LIVING BOOK by CHARLOTTE FISKE BATES ON F----- & S----- by WILLIAM BLAKE TO IRON-FOUNDERS AND OTHERS by GORDON BOTTOMLEY |