’Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
这不是你的工作，而是爱的工作。他来了，把你的铅笔抽出来，使你的眼睛比最黑的三色堇还要黑，使你的头发比三月前的花蕾还要黑。