Sonnet 132

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,

Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,

Have put on black, and loving mourners be,

Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.

And truly not the morning sun of heaven

Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,

Nor that full star that ushers in the even

Doth half that glory to the sober west

As those two mourning eyes become thy face.

O, let it then as well beseem thy heart

To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,

And suit thy pity like in every part.

Then will I swear beauty herself is black,

And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

I love your eyes and I think that they,

Knowing the way your heart makes mine ache,

Have come out in mourning in show of pity,

Which I find more stunning, even harder to shake.

And the sun in morning glowing against gray in the east

And the same sun in evening setting magic at dusk

Aren’t any more beautiful in their own down cast

Than your eyes are, dark set in the grieving mask

That looks upon my loving with pity.

Well then, let your heart—I wish it were so—

Take part also in the sad sympathy.

It would make your whole being glow.

Then I would say beauty itself is grief,

And anything bright, its runaway thief.