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.