Sonnet Ccxlvi:

This comfort only have I in my woes,-- To feed my heart upon thy pictured face, To draw thy shadow from its secret place, And feign the essence is indeed the rose. Vain trick of fancy! Can those lips unclose To wing through fragrant breath a word of grace? Those fixed eyes soften, or the blushes chase Each other fleetly o'er the cheek's repose? Poor, paper semblance, out of pity, this, This tender hand upon thy brow I lay, Chiding with blessings, moaning as I pray; And so, sad counterfeit of all my bliss, Stolen conception of a sunny ray, I greet thee, quit thee, with a barren kiss.