Poetry is the Cruellest Month – Shakespeare’s Birthday

“Such comfort, as do lusty young men feel,
When well-apparell’d April on the heel
Of limping winter treads.” (Romeo & Juliet, Act. I. Sc. 2)
 
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The question was never, “To write, or not to write?”

Sonnet XCVIII

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim,
Hath put a spirit of youth in everything,
That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue,
Could make me any summer’s story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:
Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight
Drawn after you, – you pattern of all those.
    Yet seem’d it winter still, and, you away,
    As with your shadow I with these did play.

 

Sonnet XXIL

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I, then, be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gav’st me mine, not to give back again.
 

Happy Birthday, Shakes!!!

 
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3 Comments

Filed under Howling at the moon

3 responses to “Poetry is the Cruellest Month – Shakespeare’s Birthday

  1. I prefer his “Nantucket” limerick series.

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