Time rattled your fair skin, carved its deep lines
Cruel sculptor, that unyielding artist's hand
Which stretched drying clay, which let expand
Improper shapes with curves that undermined
A knife was taken to cheekbones' incline
Against gravity, jowls could not withstand
Your widow's peak had left but one strand
'Twas not a benevolent god's design.
Yet your blue eyes shall never be opaque
Lucidity of the mind through them shines
As formless light, beyond art's own restraint
From time's own sands the glassmaker did take
To fashion your clear lenses without taint
Though lids may shut, the eyes remain awake.
First time that I've written a Petrarchan sonnet
