Lo! in the orient when the gracious light <br /> Lifts up his burning head, each under eye <br /> Doth homage to his new-appearing sight, <br /> Serving with looks his sacred majesty; <br /> And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill, <br /> Resembling strong youth in his middle age, <br /> yet mortal looks adore his beauty still, <br /> Attending on his golden pilgrimage; <br /> But when from highmost pitch, with weary car, <br /> Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day, <br /> The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are <br /> From his low tract and look another way: <br /> So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon, <br /> Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-vii/
