Sonnet Lx – William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, 

So do our minutes hasten to their end; 

Each changing place with that which goes before, 

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. 

Nativity, once in the main of light, 

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d, 

Crooked elipses ‘gainst his glory fight, 

And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. 

Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth 

And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, 

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth, 

And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: 

And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand, 

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

Let Me Not To The Marriage Of True Minds – William Shakespeare

Sonnet Cxvi:

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.

Against My Love Shall Be As I Am Now – William Shakespeare

Sonnet 63:

Against my love shall be as I am now 

With Time’s injurious hand crushed and o’erworn, 

When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow 

With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn 

Hath travelled on to age’s steepy night, 

And all those beauties whereof now he’s king 

Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight, 

Stealing away the treasure of his spring: 

For such a time do I now fortify 

Against confounding age’s cruel knife, 

That he shall never cut from memory 

My sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life. 

His beauty shall in these black lines be seen, 

And they shall live, and he in them still green.

Those Lips That Love’s Own Hand Did Make – William Shakespeare

Sonnet 145:

Those lips that Love’s own hand did make 

Breathed forth the sound that said “I hate” 

To me that languished for her sake; 

But when she saw my woeful state, 

Straight in her heart did mercy come, 

Chiding that tongue that ever sweet 

Was used in giving gentle doom, 

And taught it thus anew to greet: 

“I hate” she altered with an end, 

That followed it as gentle day 

Doth follow night, who like a fiend 

From heaven to hell is flown away. 

“I hate” from hate away she threw, 

And saved my life, saying “not you.”

Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth – William Shakespeare

Sonnet 146:

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 

My sinful earth these rebel powers array, 

Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, 

Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? 

Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 

Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? 

Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 

Eat up thy charge? is this thy body’s end? 

Then soul live thou upon thy servant’s loss, 

And let that pine to aggravate thy store; 

Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; 

Within be fed, without be rich no more. 

So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, 

And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then.

 My Love Is As A Fever, Longing Still – William Shakespeare

Sonnet 147:

My love is as a fever, longing still 

For that which longer nurseth the disease, 

Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, 

Th’ uncertain sickly appetite to please. 

My reason, the physician to my love, 

Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, 

Hath left me, and I desperate now approve 

Desire is death, which physic did except. 

Past cure I am, now reason is past care, 

And frantic-mad with evermore unrest; 

My thoughts and my discourse as mad men’s are, 

At random from the truth vainly expressed. 

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, 

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
William Shakespeare

How The Leaves Came Down – Sarah Chauncey Woolsey

‘I’ll tell you how the leaves came down,’ 

The great Tree to his children said: 

‘You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and Brown, 

Yes, very sleepy, little Red. 

It is quite time to go to bed.’ 

‘Ah!’ begged each silly, pouting leaf, 

‘Let us a little longer stay; 

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 

‘Tis such a very pleasant day, 

We do not want to go away.’ 

So, for just one more merry day 

To the great Tree the leaflets clung, 

Frolicked and danced, and had their way, 

Upon the autumn breezes swung, 

Whispering all their sports among— 

‘Perhaps the great Tree will forget, 

And let us stay until the spring, 

If we all beg, and coax, and fret.’ 

But the great Tree did no such thing; 

He smiled to hear their whispering. 

‘Come, children, all to bed,’ he cried; 

And ere the leaves could urge their prayer, 

He shook his head, and far and wide, 

Fluttering and rustling everywhere, 

Down sped the leaflets through the air. 

I saw them; on the ground they lay, 

Golden and red, a huddled swarm, 

Waiting till one from far away, 

White bedclothes heaped upon her arm, 

Should come to wrap them safe and warm. 

The great bare Tree looked down and smiled. 

‘Good-night, dear little leaves,’ he said. 

And from below each sleepy child 

Replied, ‘Good-night,’ and murmured, 

‘It is so nice to go to bed!’