When in the chronicle of wasted time <br /> I see descriptions of the fairest wights, <br /> And beauty making beautiful old rhyme <br /> In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights, <br /> Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best, <br /> Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, <br /> I see their antique pen would have express'd <br /> Even such a beauty as you master now. <br /> So all their praises are but prophecies <br /> Of this our time, all you prefiguring; <br /> And, for they look'd but with divining eyes, <br /> They had not skill enough your worth to sing: <br /> For we, which now behold these present days, <br /> Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-cvi/
