When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,
Thy youth’s proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held.
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies—
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days—
To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty’s use
If thou couldst answer "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse",
Proving his beauty by succession thine.
This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold.
Note:
Having long admired this Shakespearean verse and its darker tones and hues o'er the sonnet's saunter, I decided to plagiarize a bit per an even more somber purpose for my 7th book and poetic novel; The Third Fall of Race Brook (2015). Thus the subtle reference (below) from that book, in memory of a special woman, a life much too soon departed yet still remembered as a well-loved music teacher, talented pianist, gifted conversationalist with a beautiful mind, heart and soul; to J.T. (1976-2007) characterized as Beth...
O her years slender, graced by thirty winters, her crown
And head endowed instead by quotes and scores of notes
Versed and rehearsed the epiphanies and past symphonies
Lastly the books Beth took to heart, all like warm quilts
Although she felt her final season boreal, as she reasoned
Contempt for iatric remedy, content by death's alchemy
Nevertheless she held a single regret for the one she met
Unexpectedly, untimely, yet in perfect time, effectively
Thus she penned retrospectively, “I wish to have loved”
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