William Shakespeare'i sonetid
white, Nor that full star that ushers in the even,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks; Doth half that glory to the sober west,
And in some perfumes is there more delight As those two mourning eyes become thy
Than in the breath that from my mistress face:
reeks. O! let it then as well beseem thy heart
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know To mourn for me since mourning doth thee
That music hath a far more pleasing sound: grace,
I grant I never saw a goddess go, And suit thy pity like in every part.
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the Then will I swear beauty herself is black,
ground: And all they foul that thy complexion lack.
And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,
annaabi.ee 
