Sonnet 127

In the old age black was not counted fair,

Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;

But now is black beauty’s successive heir,

And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame:

For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,

Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrow’d face,

Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,

But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.

Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,

Her brows so suited, and they mourners seem

At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,

Slandering creation with a false esteem.

Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,

That every tongue says beauty should look so.

Once upon a time, dark was not thought pretty.

Or if it was, it didn’t carry a princess’s name.

Now, there’s virtually nothing left in the city

Of beauty without shame.

For since everybody, these days, can feign beauty—

Buy it here, strip it there—

Beauty’s left our spirits, empty,

Though it appears to be everywhere.

So I took a love eyes black,

Who looks like perpetual mourning,

Seeing, as she does, the soulless lack

Of beauty out there thriving.

And mourning looks, now, are becoming.

She shines like a new morning.