Back перевод пер. С. Маршака, Шекспир, с. 132

I like your eyes. They are caressing me,
Forgetying all, with a genuine pity.
As friend rejected, buried within,
As sadness, to a black colour fitted.

Believe that sunshine doesn't suit to face
Of the early, though grey-haired, east,
And star that carries evening to this place -
The west eye of the transparent sky bliss -

Is not such radiant, not so light in view,
As this nice look, filled whole with farewell.
Oh, if you could your heart vest into
The same black mourning, soft and sad -

Then I may think, that the beauty is itself
Black as the night, and bright as light - in black.