Mirkwood Sonnet

To me, fair friend, you never can be old
For as you were when first your eye I eyed
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters' cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen
Three April perfumes in three Hot Junes burn'd
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green
Ah! Yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand
Steal from his fugure, and no pace perceiv'd
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd
For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred
Ere you were born, was beauty's summer dead