Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak, <br />Lives not within the humor of the eye;— <br />Not being but an outward phantasy, <br />That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,— <br />Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak, <br />As if the rose made summer,—and so lie <br />Amongst the perishable things that die, <br />Unlike the love which I would give and seek: <br />Whose health is of no hue—to feel decay <br />With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. <br />Love is its own great loveliness alway, <br />And takes new lustre from the touch of time; <br />Its bough owns no December and no May, <br />But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.<br /><br />Thomas Hood<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/love-dearest-lady-such-as-i-would-speak/
