To me, fair friend, you never can be old, <br /> For as you were when first your eye I eyed, <br /> Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold <br /> Have from the forests shook three summers' pride, <br /> Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd <br /> In process of the seasons have I seen, <br /> Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd, <br /> Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. <br /> Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand, <br /> Steal from his figure and no pace perceived; <br /> So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, <br /> Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived: <br /> For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred; <br /> Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-civ/
