Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality oersways their power, How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruind choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall oer-read, And tongues to be your being shall rehearse When all the breathers of this world are dead; You still shall livesuch virtue hath my pen Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
Do not drop in for an after-loss. Ah, do not, when my heart hath scapd this sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquerd woe; Give not a windy night a rainy morrow, To linger out a purposd overthrow.