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Scholar, Writer, Mother, Dreamer. Editor of Luminarium, an online library for English Literature of the Middle Ages and Renaissance.

Sunday, May 07, 2006

Sonnetsday 13

 

Sonnet XVII

HO will believe my verse in time to come,
   If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
   Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say, ‘This poet lies;
Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces.’
So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,
Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rage
And stretchèd metre of an antique song:
     But were some child of yours alive that time,
     You should live twice — in it and in my rhyme.
 

W.S.


 

Tags: Sonnets | Shakespeare

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1 Comments:

Blogger Istanbultaye said...

ah, good ole william ^^ (i personally have a strange attraction to his sonnet about the umm... love spring or something? I shall have to go look it up.)

May 07, 2006 11:02 AM  

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