Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

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.