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