ON a day--alack the day!--
Love, whose month is ever May,
Spied a blossom passing fair
Playing in the wanton air:
Through the velvet leaves the wind
All unseen 'gan passage find;
That the lover, sick to death,
Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
Air, would I might triumph so!
But, alack, my hand is sworn
Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn:
Vow, alack, for youth unmeet;
Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
Do not call it sin in me
That I am forsworn for thee;
Thou for whom e'en Jove would swear
Juno but an Ethiop were;
And deny himself for Jove,
Turning mortal for thy love.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- Sonnet 153: Cupid Laid By His Brand And Fell Asleep
- Sonnet 132: Thine Eyes I Love, And They, As Pitying Me
- Sonnet 27: Weary With Toil, I Haste Me To My Bed
- Sonnet 119: What Potions Have I Drunk Of Siren Tears
- Sonnet 57: Being Your Slave, What Should I Do But Tend