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 climbed 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 outgoing in thy noon, <br /> Unlooked on diest, unless thou get a son.<br /><br />William Shakespeare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-7-lo-in-the-orient-when-the-gracious-ligh/
