To me, fair friend, you never can be old, <br />For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, <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 perceiv'd; <br />So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand, <br />Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd: <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-104-to-me-fair-friend-you-never-can-be-old/
