Sonnet 24

Mine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d

Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;

My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,

And perspective it is the painter’s art.

For through the painter must you see his skill

To find where your true image pictured lies,

Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,

That hath his windows glazèd with thine eyes.

Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:

Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me

Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun

Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee.

Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art:

They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

My eyes became painters, made a portrait

Of you on the canvas of my heart,

Housed in my body, like a garret

Or museum for the art.

If you want to see truth,

You must look to an artist,

So we need each other both

Now, by this marvelous twist:

How can you see all of you

Without opening up to me?

And if I could no longer gaze on you,

Where would my museum be?

But eyes this genius want more in their art.

They want to see into their subject’s heart.