Back перевод пер. С. Маршака, Шекспир, с. 5

And stealthily Time in its skilful manner
Is making a mysterious play,
The holiday for eyes, but simultaneously
It takes away all things, we'd luck to have.

The impetious flow of the hours and days
Takes summer to the twilights of the winter,
Where is the lack of leafage and the sap
Is frozen in the cold naked trees;

Where the earth is dead under the snow coat,
But only the flavour of the roses -
The flying captive of the glass - in coldness
Reminds, that surely the summer - was.

The flowers had lost their former glitter,
But the beauty of the soul still is living.