In the Rose Garden

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red ;

If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;

And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.

I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;

I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

William Shakespeare
Sonnet CXXX

a wet Sunday afternoon
at Hinton Ampner.