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/sonnets-xv/
