Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak...

By Thomas Hood

Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humor of the eye; --
Not being but an outward fantasy,
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.