Where be those roses gone, which sweeten'd so our eyes? <br />Where those red cheeks, which oft with fair increase did frame <br />The height of honor in the kindly badge of shame? <br />Who hath the crimson weeds stol'n from my morning skies? <br /> <br />How did the color fade of those vermilion dyes <br />Which Nature self did make, and self engrain'd the same? <br />I would know by what right this paleness overcame <br />That hue, whose force my heart still unto thraldom ties. <br /> <br />Galen's adoptive sons, who by a beaten way <br />Their judgments hackney on, the fault of sickness lay, <br />But feeling proof makes me say they mistake it furre: <br /> <br />It is but Love, which makes his paper perfect white <br />To write therein more fresh the story of delight, <br />While Beauty's reddest ink Venus for him doth stir.<br /><br />Sir Philip Sidney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-102-wher-be-those-roses-gone/
