SONNET XXIII

While rose's charming blush and lily's white
Are still the colours radiant on your face,
And while your fiery gaze with candid grace
Still checks the burning flame it set alight,

And while your flaxen hair, still gleaming bright,
Mined from some vein of gold, falls out of place
(Your neck - that marble pillar! - to embrace)
By wayward breezes spread and set in flight,

The ripening harvest of your happy spring
Now gather in, before destructive Time
Lays waste with snow the summit of your head.

Cold winds will blast the rose now in its prime,
And fickle Age will alter everything,
So not to change his own old ways instead.