Beauty
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
~Willy Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
I must comment on the incredible irony of circumstances. I thought and wrote rather extensively on this particular poem a couple months ago. Just yesterday morning I was looking back on my thoughts, and they took on an entirely new depth and breadth of meaning. Thoughts that seemed so scattered and irrelevant a couple months ago showed their purpose tonight.
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
~Willy Shakespeare, Sonnet 116
I must comment on the incredible irony of circumstances. I thought and wrote rather extensively on this particular poem a couple months ago. Just yesterday morning I was looking back on my thoughts, and they took on an entirely new depth and breadth of meaning. Thoughts that seemed so scattered and irrelevant a couple months ago showed their purpose tonight.