Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage:
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract, and look another way:
So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:
Unlook’d, on diest unless thou get a son.
In plain English
The sun rises in the east, and everyone below stops to watch it. As it climbs higher, it looks strong and beautiful in the middle of the sky, and people keep their eyes on it the whole way up. But when the sun reaches its peak and starts to sink, looking tired and old as it falls toward the horizon, those same devoted eyes turn away and look elsewhere.
You're the same. Right now you're at your peak—your noon, your most beautiful and powerful moment. But you're moving past it. When you fade like that setting sun, nobody will bother to look at you anymore. Unless you have a son. A child keeps your light alive when you yourself are going dark.
