Sonnet 12

When 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 silver’d 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 defence

Save breed to brave him when he takes thee hence.

When I watch the way the clock kills time,

And see the brave day cowering in twilight,

And the violet wither, and leaves fall from their climb,

And beauty turn ugly, and hair turn white—

When I see lofty trees carrying no ornament,

Missing the canopies that once shielded the birds,

And summer’s green all barreled up and sent,

Nothing but leaves now, to be burned in yards—

Then of your beauty I have to think

Of how the time will dispose of it too,

Since flowers themselves abandon their pink,

And fruit and tree relinquish their hue.

And nothing can trick or deceive time’s scythe,

Except gifts to others, delivered and blithe.