Sonnet 7

Lo, in the orient when the gracious light

Lifts up his burning head, each under eye

Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,

Serving with looks his sacred majesty;

And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,

Resembling strong youth in his middle age,

Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,

Attending on his golden pilgrimage;

But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,

Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,

The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are

From his low tract and look another way:

So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,

Unlook’d on diest unless thou get a son.

Oh, in the east, how the sunrise is gracious,

And everything, each morning, lights up

In gratitude, and the world becomes more spacious,

And all low things raise their eyes in hope—

And having reached the top of its heavenly arc,

The sun appears youthful even at midday—

And we, who must die, who have seen as much dark,

Still admire the sun’s pilgrimage into the sky—

But when, from its highest place,

The sun descends, swings down the day,

And dims everything, even its own face,

Our eyes are forced to see another way.

So you, so prominent—above you, no one—

Might darken, if you leave us no daughter or son.