Sonnet 2
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When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty\\u2019s field,
Thy youth\\u2019s proud livery, so gaz\\u2019d on now,
Will be a tatter\\u2019d weed of small worth held:
Then being ask\\u2019d, where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserv\\u2019d thy beauty\\u2019s use,
If thou couldst answer, \\u201cThis fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,\\u201d
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
\\xa0 This were to be new made when thou art old,
\\xa0 And see thy blood warm when thou feel\\u2019st it cold.
Waltz to a Wood Thrush by Kathleen Martin is licensed under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.
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