love, dearest lady, such as i would speak,

lives not within the humor 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.