SONNET #12

by: William Shakespeare

HEN I do count the clock that tells the time

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,

When I behold the violet past prime

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white,

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer's green all girded up in sheaves

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;

Then of thy beauty do I question make

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defense

Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.