Shakespeare 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
Born 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.
