When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery, so gaz'd on now, Will be a tatter'd weed of small worth held: Then being ask'd, where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days, To say within thine own deep-sunken eyes Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv'd thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer, "This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse," Proving his beauty by succession thine.   This were to be new made when thou art old,   And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. Waltz to a Wood Thrush by Kathleen Martin is licensed under a Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License.  

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