Poem by Thomas Hood

Sonnet (Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak)

Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humor of the eye;—
Not being but an outward phantasy,
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,—
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,
As if the rose made summer,—and so lie
Amongst the perishable things that die,
Unlike the love which I would give and seek:
Whose health is of no hue—to feel decay
With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime.
Love is its own great loveliness alway,
And takes new lustre from the touch of time;
Its bough owns no December and no May,
But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.

1. Stanzas (Is there a bitter pang for love removed)
2. The Departure of Summer
3. The Two Peacocks of Bedfont
4. Ballad (She's up and gone, the graceless girl)
5. The Poet's Portion

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