Ни соков, ни листвы у дерева-скелета,
В пустыне снеговой краса погребена.

Тогда, коль дух её в духах не заключится
Текучим узником за стенкой из стекла,
От летней красоты ничто не сохранится,
Ни сил, ни памяти, какой она была.

А породив духи, утратит только внешность
Цветок, всего себя вливающий в их нежность.

Sonnet V
Those hours that with gentle work did frame
the lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
will play the tyrants to the very same,
and that unfair which fairly doth excel:

for never-resting time leads summer on
to hideous winter and confounds him there,
sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
beauty o'er snowed and bareness everywhere.

Then were not summer's distillation left
a liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
nor it nor no remembrance what it was.

But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.