Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me
As I not for myself, but for thee will
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again
Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase
Without this, folly, age, and cold decay
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now
Will be a tattered weed of small worth held
Zartdurchsichtig und marmorblaß,
Und sie spielt die Harfe und singt,
Und der Wind durchwühlt ihre langen Locken,
Und trägt ihr dunkles Lied
Über das weite stürmende Meer.