Sonnet 106

When in the chronicle of wasted time

I see descriptions of the fairest wights,

And beauty making beautiful old rhyme

In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,

Then in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,

Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

I see their antique pen would have express’d

Even such a beauty as you master now.

So all their praises are but prophecies

Of this our time, all you prefiguring;

And, for they look’d but with divining eyes,

They had not skill enough your worth to sing.

For we, which now behold these present days,

Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

In the archives of times that don’t

Matter now, I see poets describing

Love in ancient beauty—words that won’t

Bear translating.

Lying there in the splendor

Of your body, light tracing

Through the windows, I see what for—

Why they were writing.

So now they seem like prophesies,

Glimmerings of you.

And somewhat, too, like fantasies—

Since they could not see you.

And I, who sit right here today,

Have eyes to wonder, not words to say.