Sonnet 108: What's in the brain that ink may character

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what now to register,
That may express my love, or thy dear merit?

Nothing, sweet boy, but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old—thou mine, I thine—
Even as when first I hallowed thy fair name.

So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,

But makes antiquity for aye his page,
Finding the first conceit of love there bred
Where time and outward form would show it dead. 

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Tuesday, July 12, 2011 - 01:57

Poesia Consagrada :

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other contents of Shakespeare

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Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet Sonnet 11: As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st 0 4.139 07/12/2011 - 01:58 English
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Poesia Consagrada/Sonnet Sonnet 118: Like as to make our appetite more keen 0 3.722 07/12/2011 - 02:09 English
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